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    A Boston story in 50 words

    Hanging boxing gloves isolated on white background
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    Wintertime — and my bare knuckles bloody on an outbound Orange Line train. An old man, sitting nearby, staring at them, saying: “You must be a boxer.” I wasn’t, but I had dry skin that frequently bled in cold weather.

    In my 20s then, I nodded at him without denying it.

    — Don Cummings, Melrose