Marty Preston:
But, Doc, you don't know what I've been through.
Doc Wallace:
You feel like the whole world's against you, huh? See that picture up there? That's Sam's parents. There's Eddie the father, Claira the mother, and that little ittie-bittie thing, that's Sam.
Marty Preston:
[Looking at the picture] I never seen a picture of them.
Doc Wallace:
Claira was... my princess.
Marty Preston:
[Turns back to Doc, listening carefully]
Doc Wallace:
We were babysitting Sam the... uh... night of the accident. And I'll never forget Social Services. [Takes off his glasses]
Doc Wallace:
Oh, yes, they jumped all over us. They said we were... that we were too old to raise a child. That we didn't have financial stability. [Puts glasses back on]
Doc Wallace:
Which I thought it was a joke cause I'd been practicing medicine for forty years.
Marty Preston:
But, you were able to keep her, weren't you?
Doc Wallace:
Yeah, after a hell of a fight. It was the love of Sam that gave us our strength. We would have sacraficed anything... to keep her. You see, sometimes, the greatests test of love... is how much you're willing to fight for it. You think about that. This dog... is gonna need a lot of love. Go get him. [Marty picks up Shiloh and turns to leave]
Doc Wallace:
Marty? [Marty turns back to face Doc]
Doc Wallace:
I love you. [Marty smiles then leaves with Shiloh. Doc watches Marty leave. He then looks up at the picture of Sam and her parents. He then shuts his eyes and puts one of his hands on his head in sadness]
Muhammad Ali:
It is befitting that I leave the game just like I came in, beating a big bad monster who knocks out everybody and no one can whup him. So when little Cassius Clay from Louisville, Kentucky, came up to stop Sonny Liston. The man who annihilated Floyd Patterson twice. HE WAS GONNA KILL ME! But he hit harder than George. His reach is longer than George's. He's a better boxer than George. And I'm better now than I was when you saw that 22-years old undeveloped kid running from Sonny Liston. I'm experienced now, professional. Jaws been broke, been knocked down a couple of times, I'm bad! Been chopping trees. I done something new for this fight. I done wrestled with an alligator. That's right. I have wrestled with an alligator. I done tussled with a whale. I done handcuffed lightning, thrown thunder in jail. That's bad! Only last week I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalised a brick! I'm so mean I make medicine sick!
Don King:
Bad dude!
Muhammad Ali:
Bad, fast! Fast! Fast! Last night I cut the light off in my bedroom, hit the switch and was in the bed before the room was dark.
no disease suffered by a live man can be known, for every living person has his own peculiarities and always has his own peculiar, personal, novel, complicated disease, unknown to medicine -- not a disease of the lungs, liver, skin, heart, nerves, and so on mentioned in medical books, but a disease consisting of one of the innumerable combinations of the maladies of those organs. This simple thought could not occur to the doctors (as it cannot occur to a wizard that he is unable to work his charms) because the business of their lives was to cure, and they received money for it and had spent the best years of their lives on that business. But above all that thought was kept out of their minds by the fact that they saw they were really useful [...] Their usefulness did not depend on making the patient swallow substances for the most part harmful (the harm was scarcely perceptible because they were given in small doses) but they were useful, necessary, and indispensable because they satisfied a mental need of the invalid and those who loved her -- and that is why there are, and always will be, pseudo-healers, wise women, homoeopaths, and allopaths. They satisfied that eternal human need for hope of relief, for sympathy, and that something should be done, which is felt by those who are suffering.
