In bars, lunchrooms, paddocks, wherever sportsmen gather, you see themfrayed bravos with cauliflower cars, rakish noses, thick necks, entreating eyes. They catch your glance, they wink, edge over. It is no drink that they want, no sandwich, no news about a pretty thing in the second race. They want to impart something. For these are the fallen kings of boxing,' they who have knocked out champions and never gotten credit for it, who have been champions and are forgotten. Will one of these sidling, loquacious ones ever be a huge brown Argentine with a...
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