The dressing room was an overcrowded sauna swarming with the wriggling bodies of family, reporters, and old white people from the Boxing Commission. An unholy roar filled his ears, like listening to music underwater. None of it made sense, and through it all, Ronny Lipton had only one question; Why was he so goddamned cold?
Blood oozing is not a big deal—even when there’s a lot of it. It’s torn flesh, capillaries, minor damage. Looks worse than it is. But when it keeps pouring out and doesn’t stop, you’ve ripped a vein, and that’s a bitch. Protocol is clear: clean it out, numb the spot with Lidocaine, suture it. Scott’s
Marion Murdock; World Champion boxer best remembered for fatally defeating an opponent in 1962,executed his drills in the Emile Griffith Memorial Gym, the heavens outside unleashing untold chaos and confusion in the busy streets of Brooklyn. The dense air clung to the ceiling of the gym, small glimmers of light spilling down in the sweltering