Million Dollar Baby

Million Dollar Baby

In the slick heat of a London‑sized sphere,
the sound weaves beneath a ill‑founded dream:
Maggie, a star stitched from grit and dust—
the quiet persistence of a girl who won’t walk the dust.

Frankie, the brass‑lined mentor with a heart that’s scarred,
his wings—worn as the city’s own, south‑side lorries—
teach her that the boxing ring is a battlefield of survival,
where every hit keeps the hope that feels like a prize.

A press conference in dull gold, the footage of the crowd,
the glow room where passion engrains in the leather,
in that instant, the world, her george‑size respect,
shouts: “You’ve got the glow of a million on your back.”

They stand in the centre rings, both fists upward,
leap into the heart of a fight, a fairy‑tale cast down.
When the bell rings, the visual of triumph drowns in the ring's echo,
and the crowd—however bright—pall around the weight of "what was."

The tragedy now sits in the dark, a coffin in the veld,
but there lingers the perfume of the future laid to rest.
In that crooked lullaby of bottles, of faded resilience,
the girl becomes a myth—a “Mill‑doll Columbia” in the hearts of all.

So we remember it with the hush of the ink‑slant on the paper –
the bon‑boy watch‑till‑the-eagle‑flies and the "brave fellow."
The daughter from the book—like a lighthouse welded—
sails on, under a sky worth of colour, hope harbouring the thunder.