- Rod Serling - Narrator: [opening narration] In this corner of the universe, a prizefighter named Bolie Jackson, one-hundred and eighty-three pounds and an hour and a half away from a comeback at St. Nick's Arena. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who, by the standards of his profession is an aging, over-the-hill relic of what was, and who now sees a reflection of a man who has left too many pieces of his youth in too many stadiums for too many years before too many screaming people. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who might do well to look for some gentle magic in the hard-surfaced glass that stares back at him.
- Rod Serling - Narrator: [Closing Narration] Mr. Bolie Jackson, a hundred and eighty-three pounds, who left a second chance lying in a heap on a rosin-spattered canvas at St. Nick's Arena. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who shares the most common ailment of all men, the strange and perverse disinclination to believe in a miracle, the kind of miracle to come from the mind of a little boy, perhaps only to be found in the Twilight Zone.
- Bolie Jackson: Little boys. Little boys with their heads full up with dreams. When do they find out, Frances? When do they suddenly find out that there ain't any magic? When does somebody push their face down on the sidewalk and say to them, "Hey, little boy, it's concrete. That's what the world is made out of, concrete." When do they find out that you can wish your life away?
- Henry Temple: Bolie?
- [yawns]
- Henry Temple: I ain't gonna make no more wishes, Bolie. I'm too old for wishes, and there ain't no such thing as magic, is there?
- Bolie Jackson: I guess not, Henry.
- [pauses]
- Bolie Jackson: Or maybe... maybe there is magic, and maybe there's wishes, too. I guess the trouble is... I guess the trouble is not enough people around to believe. Good night, boy.