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The story of boxing legend Jerry Quarry has it all: rags to riches, thrilling fights against the giants of the Golden Age of Heavyweights (Ali—twice, Frazier—twice, Patterson, Norton), a racially and politically electric sports era, the thrills and excesses of fame, celebrities, love, hate, joy, and pain. And tragedy. Like the man he fought during two highly controversial fight cards in 1970 and ’72—Muhammad Ali—boxing great Jerry Quarry was to suffer gravely. He died at age fifty-three, mind and body ravaged by Dementia Pugilistica. In Hard Luck, “Irish” Jerry Quarry comes to life—from his Grapes of Wrath days as the child of an abusive father in the California migrant camps to those as the undersized heavyweight slaying giants on his way to multiple title bouts and the honor of being the World’s Most Popular Fighter in ’68, ’69, ’70, and ’71. The story of Jerry Quarry is one of the richest in the annals of boxing, and through painstaking research and exclusive access to the Quarry family and its archives, Steve Springer and Blake Chavez have captured it all.
Presents two novellas, one about a young woman's dream about an ex-lover while on a hiking trip, and the other about the sister of a woman lying in a coma.
The Divorce tells about a man who takes a vacation from Providence, R.I. in early December to avoid conflicts with his newly divorced wife and small daughter. He travels to Buenos Aires and there, one afternoon, he encounters a series of the most magical coincidences. While sitting at an outdoor café, absorbed in conversation with a talented video artist, a young man with a bicycle is thoroughly drenched by a downpour of water seemingly from rain caught the night before in the overhead awning. The video artist knows the cyclist, who knew a mad hermetic sculptor, whose family used to take the Hindu God Krishna for walks in the neighborhood. More meetings, more whimsical and clever stories continue to weave reality with the absurd until the final, brilliant, wonderful, cataclysmic ending.
Time did not forget this tiny fishing village, this small dot in the Caribbean Sea. Cayman has grown up and graduated to become a financial capital where the wicked, greedy, righteous, and brave coexist. Paradise for some can be hell for others when corruption reigns in high places. What you know could very well get you killed. Ezekiel Howett is no saint, but neither is he the worst on the water. Just a native boy from the islands, he’s a Rastafarian at heart and a marijuana activist. Sadly, an honest living is hard to come by. Unemployed, Ezekiel does what he can to survive. With the help of an old sea captain, he hunts for buried treasure on land and at sea. He is sorely unprepared when past mistakes come back to haunt him. His life and future are now in jeopardy. The law is watching, and his enemies will stop at nothing to lock him behind bars. Marginalized as a native minority, Ezekiel has nowhere to turn. He must become the quiet hero with no choice but to fight back.
The story of a sick baby bird nursed back to health and into the wild.
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In the era of Hollywood now considered its Golden Age, there was no shortage of hard-luck stories--movie stars succumbed to mental illness, addiction, accidents, suicide, early death and more. This book profiles 23 actresses who achieved a measure of success before fate dealt them losing hands--in full public view. Overviews of their lives and careers provide a wealth of previously unpublished information and set the record straight on long-standing inaccuracies. Actresses covered include Lynne Baggett, Suzan Ball, Helen Burgess, Susan Cabot, Mary Castle, Mae Clarke, Dorothy Comingore, Patricia Dane, Dorothy Dell, Sidney Fox, Charlotte Henry, Rita Johnson, Mayo Methot, Marjie Millar, Mary Nolan, Susan Peters, Lyda Roberti, Peggy Shannon, Rosa Stradner, Judy Tyler, Karen Verne, Helen Walker and Constance Worth.
SOME GIRLS HAVE ALL THE LUCKUnfortunately, I am not one of those girls. Not when I lost my apartment because my roommate let the lease lapse while I travel for work. Not when my brothers keep finding love and my mother keeps reminding me I'm still single. Not after a one-night stand during my older brother's wedding has me waking up pregnant. I have to keep it a secret-from him, and my family. I sure can't tell my brother his teammate, Mateo Espinoza, is the man I slept with. Confident, funny, Mateo... A GUY CAN'T CATCH A BREAKJust when I thought I'd found the girl of my dreams, she ghosts me. Worse? Her brother refuses to give me her number, and my calls to her office go straight to voicemail. I thought I was a catch; professional athlete, charming, raised with six sisters-I'm a guy who knows his way to a woman's heart! What reason could she possibly have for avoiding me?When I finally catch up to True Wallace, I'm going to get the answer.
I had never before attended the races. "The sport of kings" is not popular in Boston, my former home, but here in Chicago every one turns out on Derby Day, if at no other time. And so, catching something of the general enthusiasm, my friend Murray Jameson, who by the way is something of a sport, and I, who by the same token am not, found ourselves driving a very smart trap out Michigan avenue, amidst a throng of coaches, cabs, breaks and buggies, people and conveyances of every description—beautiful women beautifully costumed, young men, business men, toughs and wantons—all on their way to Washington Park, and all in a fever of excitement over the big race to be run that afternoon—the great American Derby. "Now Jack," said Murray, as in due process we reached our box and sat gazing at the crowds about and below us, "it strikes me that we should have a small bet of some sort on the different races, just to liven things up a bit. What say we go down into the betting ring and have a look at the odds?" "As you like," I answered, rising to show my willingness; "but you will have to do the necessary, I do n't know one horse from another." "The less you know the more apt you are to win," said Murray airily; "but if you say so, I 'll make one bet for both of us, share and share alike. No plunging goes to-day though, Jack; we do n't want to gamble. We 'll have up a couple of dollars, just to focalize the interest. If we lose it won't amount to much, and if we win—we win. "But just a word of warning before we go down. Keep your eye on your watch and your money, or you 'll get 'touched;' and if we should chance to be separated in a crowd, be careful not to let anyone 'tout' you." Now, if there 's one thing I am especially proud of, it is my ability to take care of myself in any company, and Murray's patronizing manner, in view of my professed ignorance, rather galled me. "The man who gets my watch or money is welcome to it," I answered shortly, buttoning my coat about me as we walked along; "and as for being 'touted'—well, I 'll try to take care of that." Whether to be 'touted' was to be held up, buncoed, or drugged and robbed, I had no definite notion; but I took it to be a confidence game of some sort and despised it accordingly. Just here, following Murray, I elbowed my way into the hottest, best-natured, most conglomerate crowd it was ever my lot to mingle with. Merchants, clerks and gilded youths, laborers, gamblers, negroes, and what-not, money in hand, pushed, pulled and trod upon each other indiscriminately in their efforts to reach the betting stands.