Even at a discount, this little lady is a real knockout

With apologies in advance to Clint Eastwood, Morgan Freeman, Hilary Swank and all of their agents, publicists and lawyers, I hereby present “Thousand Dollar Baby (Marked Down)”:

I knew she would be trouble the minute she walked into this ratty old gym. For one thing, she was trailer-trash. For another, she didn’t know a speed bag from an optional side-impact air bag. For another, she was a girl. You could tell, because she wore her waitress dress even while sparring.

My name is Eddie “Scrapbookin’ ” Dupris, the worn-out yet lovable janitor with a heart of gold. I’ve seen a lot of strange characters come through these gym doors. Once, a Pomeranian walked in and announced he wanted to be a “boxer.” But I don’t remember nobody like Maggie Fitzgerald.

She came from a family of welfare-cheating rednecks who ate pork rinds, watched daytime TV and got pregnant at 14. And those were just her brothers. Yet with Maggie, “inbred” somehow skipped a generation. Maggie was tough, disciplined and persistent, which is why Frankie found her so annoying.

Frankie, a grizzled old trainer with a duffel bag full of regrets and another duffel full of sweatpants and dirty socks he dumped on me in the laundry room, wanted nothing to do with her. Frankie said Maggie was just a stupid kid with no talent and a big mouth. He also pointed out that she was a girl, and girls make lousy boxers because the “rules don’t allow purse-swinging.” He was a heartwarming old curmudgeon.

But Maggie kept on pestering Frankie. She told him that she could be a contender if only he would just teach her some footwork, some basic defensive skills and maybe an obscure Irish phrase to embroider on her robe.

Yet Frankie has what we heart-of-gold janitors call “psychological and emotional displacement issues.” Maggie reminded him of his daughter, with whom he hadn’t spoken for 20 years and who is probably, let’s be honest, “imaginary.” Frankie had been hit in the head, very hard and very often, in his glory days.

“Come on, Frankie,” said Maggie. “Why won’t you train me?”

“Because if I put you in the ring, some guy whose nickname is ‘Hit Man’ will just pummel you unconscious,” he said.

“No,” Maggie said. “You don’t understand. I would not have to fight guys. I’d be fighting other girls.”

“Oh,” said Frankie. “That’s different. Sure, I’ll train you.”

Soon, Maggie was winning bouts and gaining a reputation. Frankie deserved a lot of the credit for her success. He taught her to jab, taught her to counter-punch and embroidered the phrase Cuishma My Limerick on the back of her robe. Still, Frankie was conflicted about managing her, because of a tragic incident back in the day, when he managed me.

On that fateful day, I was ahead on points during a championship bout. He was my corner-man. Then he made the classic corner-man’s mistake. Instead of handing me the water bottle, he handed me the spit bucket. I downed a liter before I realized what had happened. I sprayed slime all over the referee and the first three rows.

I never fought another bout. I forgave Frankie long ago, yet he still takes the blame. Maybe it’s because, whenever he hands me a bottle of Dasani, I still make retching noises.

Frankie eventually overcame his fears and arranged for Maggie to fight in the biggest showcase in all of women’s boxing: The thousand-dollar fight in the Tuesday night smoker at the Oxnard Bingo Casino.

And that’s when it happened.

Maggie had the victory within her grasp. The bell rang to end the fourth round. Maggie turned and walked to her corner. Her opponent Jenny “Big Knuckles” Lopez was still angry over what she considered low blows, so she chased Maggie from behind and sucker-punched her. When Maggie fell, her head hit the stool with a sickening crunch.

Frankie, you see, had set out the corner stool just a little too early.

I swear, I thought Maggie was gonna be paralyzed for life. She wasn’t, of course. You can’t get paralyzed from falling on a stool. Now, if she had been hoisted to the ceiling and dropped head-first onto the stool resulting in spinal-compression trauma, yeah, that could paralyze a person.

But basically she only had a bump on her head and a pretty sore neck. She was able to finish the fight, but without her former fire. Her main problem was she kept glancing over to her corner to make sure Frankie wasn’t fooling around with that stool again. The third time she did it, Big Knuckles cold-cocked her with a right.

Well, after that, Maggie’s career stagnated, not because of her neck or anything, but mainly because there isn’t a lot of money or interest in women’s boxing.

However, Frankie always felt guilty about putting that stool in her corner. When Maggie failed to get a sportswear endorsement contract, Frankie blamed himself for that, too. The two of them finally quit boxing for good.

Yet they continued to have a mutually supportive father-daughter relationship. Frankie bought himself a little country diner. Maggie went to work for him, waitressing.

One day, in a poignant moment as they bused a table together, Frankie finally told her what Cuishma My Limerick meant. It meant “Your Sports-Bra Ad Here.”

My, my, my. (Warm-hearted chuckle). Frankie loved that Maggie even more than his imaginary daughter.

You know how much he loved Maggie? I’ll tell you how much. He would have killed for that girl, if she had just asked.

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