SI Vault
Mark Stuart Gill
December 04, 1989
Once a week, Ralph Citro, 63, a retired insurance agent from Blackwood, N.J., loads his black salesman's sample case with an economy-sized jar of Vaseline, an enormous bottle of Maalox, Q-tips, pliers, a screwdriver, several objects that look like dollhouse irons, a jar of Avitene, three bottles of Thrombin and a vial of Adrenalin. Then he gets in his station wagon and drives 45 miles to Atlantic City.
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December 04, 1989

Cornerman: Helping Boxers Survive The Cut

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It is 11 p.m. at the Showboat. The slot machines downstairs are clacking away, and the hotel buzzes with a restless energy. Citro snaps shut his black case. "There are plenty of possibilities tonight," he says. "Some of the other cutmen are going to the Sundeck Coffee Shop to flirt with the waitresses. The Clot is down the hall trying to drum up work for next week. The guy never stops. He drives me nuts. Doug DeWitt's at the Atlantic City Medical Center getting stitched up. I think I'll pop over there. The doctors may need some pointers. No, on second thought, maybe I'll just hang around here for another hour and try to get paid."

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