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"And all the time he thought his new shoes were too tight," Mrs. Marchegiano said of her husband, a retired shoemaker.
The doctor was optimistic. "Fortunately, there's a new medicine for gout. But he'll have to go on a diet. No spaghetti for a while."
Such an edict normally would have saddened Mrs. Marchegiano, who is famed for her pasta, but nothing could depress her for long.
Too many exciting things had happened all at once; first Rocky retires, then a lady doctor, then gout, then no spaghetti.
"You know," Mrs. Marchegiano said, settling herself on the foot of the bed, and still in a mind for medicine, "a year ago when Barbara was in Mexico visiting some friends, she lost a baby. Rocky felt terrible. He thought if he had been able to be there with her, it might not have happened...It's about time he have chance to enjoy his family. Up until today, he did good, so it's good he retires."
As ever, at mention of his son, Mr. Marchegiano snapped to attention. "Rocky's won every pro fight. No other champion ever did that," he said proudly. "And there's no one who can beat Rocky today."
"But he don't have to worry about that no more—" Mrs. Marchegiano smiled broadly. "After Rocky retired, I sent postcards home. 'Coming to New York for the wedding bring good luck,' I said. 'This was the big surprise of my life. It's real happiness now!'
"Now that Papa's all right, we wait now and go home with Rocky. But first, I must visit St. Patrick's again and light another candle. God's good," she said, "God's good."
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