Yes, I attended the party yesterday with my wife Joyce. On the picture above, were the two on the right.
In 1995, long retired and dulled by alcohol, Emile walked out of a gay bar in Times Square carrying a few hundred dollars. When five teens jumped him, they did not know their tipsy chump was actually a champ. Emile fought back for a few minutes before a baseball bat did him in. Boom, crash, blood, again and again and again. Somehow, the former World Champion rose from the pavement on his own and made it back to Queens, bleeding internally, his bones broken, his head crushed. His brokenhearted Mommy and lover Luis sat at his hospital bedside for the next three months. The "secret," though, remained intact. The press respected him. Through it all, no one wants to admit "it."
"It," yeah. But "it" is true. Ask Charles Barkley, a truth-teller.
The damage to Emile's brain was irreversible; his memory eroded. Well into retirement, the spiral kept going. Though all those championship rounds had made him slow, it was the baseball bat that returned Emile to the simplicity of his childhood.


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