Mike O'Brien had been a boxer once. Not a good one. Not even a decent one. But he had been a boxer,
Mike O'Brien had been a boxer once. Not a good one. Not even a decent one. But he had been a boxer, and the ring was the only place in the world where he had ever felt like he knew what was going to happen next. Now at fifty-five, he ran a gym in the Bronx that smelled of sweat and liniment and regret. The equipment was old—bags with holes in them, a speed rope held together with tape, a ring...
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