Irish Thunder: The Hard Life & Times of Micky Ward

by Bob Halloran Narrated by Bronson Pinchot

Overview

"Irish" Micky Ward grew up in the 1970s and '80s as a tough kid from Lowell, Massachusetts-a town where young men became boxers as a means of survival. Ward participated in street fights from an early age and was forever known by his opponents and spectators as the underdog. But with his incredible ability to suddenly drop an opponent late in a fight with his trademark left hook, he kept proving everyone wrong. A hard worker who overcame bad luck, bad management, and chronic pain in his hands, he avoided the pitfall of poverty and dead-end work that plagued Lowell to become a Golden Gloves junior welterweight.

After fifteen years of boxing, a string of defeats, and three years of retirement, Micky battled Arturo Gatti in 2002 in the battle that was later named "Fight of the Year" by Ring magazine and dubbed "Fight of the Century" by boxing writers and fans across the country. Ten rounds of brutal action ended with Micky winning by decision, and reviving enthusiasm for a sport that had been weighted down by years of showboating and corruption.

In Irish Thunder, ESPN columnist and Boston television reporter Bob Halloran recounts Ward's rise to hero status, his rivalry with his imprisoned brother, and the negotiations, betrayals, and drugs that shaped a wild youth who ultimately became a nationally respected boxer. A wrenching account of life in blue-collar America, this is a story about a boxer from a boxing family and a boxing town-Ward's dramatic victories inside the ring are recounted in gripping detail, but it is his victory outside the ring that inspires.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169807752
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	10/14/2010
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

A dozen bellies cozied up to the bar. Shooters all around. Shots and beers for a small group of men, some of whom had just gotten off work, others who were on their way to work, and the rest who had no work at all. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and for those with nowhere else to go, drinking seemed like a good idea, and for those in no hurry to get where they were supposed to be, drinking also seemed like a good idea. It had been this way at the Highland Tap for the better part of three decades, and if it stayed that way for three more, that would suit these men just fine.
The Tap was their comfort zone. It was dark and it was quiet. The faces were as familiar as the conversations. It was a no frills bar, uncluttered with only the essentials, a handful of tables and enough wooden stools to surround a small, oval bar. The walls were adorned with pictures of fighters, boxers, local guys whose photos served to fill these patrons with a sense of parochial pride. If you grew up in Lowell, you were tough, because Lowell made you that way. There were times in Lowell’s history when it was a good place to raise a family. The rest of the time, it was a good place to raise a little hell. Most of the men who ventured into the Highland Tap had done both.

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