I’m 32, Mr. Dunn, and I’m here celebrating the fact that I spent another year scraping dishes and waitressing, which is what I’ve been doing since 13. And according to you, I’ll be 37 before I can even throw a decent punch, which after working this speed bag for a month and getting nowhere, I now realize may be God’s simple truth. Other truth is, my brother’s in prison, my sister cheats on welfare by pretending one of her babies is still alive, my daddy’s dead, and my momma weighs 312 pounds. If I was thinking straight, I’d go back home, find a used trailer, buy a deep fryer and some oreos. Problem is, this the only thing I ever felt good doing. If I’m too old for this, then I got nothing. That enough truth to suit you?
I can’t be like this, Frankie. Not after what I done. I seen the world. People chanted my name. Well, not my name, some damn name you gave me. But they were chanting for me. I was in magazines. You think I ever dreamed that’d happen? I was born two pounds, one-and-a-half ounces. Daddy used to tell me I fought to get into this world, and I’d fight my way out. That’s all I wanna do, Frankie. I just don’t wanna fight you to do it. I got what I needed. I got it all. Don’t let them keep taking it away from me. Don’t let me lie here till I can’t hear those people chanting no more.