The stadium was very empty now, thought the doctor, but the wind rushing across the field still seemed to carry the rage of the crowd. "Damn, they were mad," he said, turning to Jimmy Ellis, who had just been awarded an unpopular decision after a bitter, savage fight with Floyd Patterson. Then the two of them (right), breath streaming into the cold Stockholm night, hurried to their car. Back at the hotel the room was silent. The lamps were moved closer to the bed and their shades removed. "The nose is fractured in three places, Jimmy," the doctor said, and then his hands began moving over the face that was conveying so much about what it is like to be a fighter.
"How bad is it cut?" asked Ellis.
"Not very bad," said the doctor. "You've got a lot of dirt in it."
"Well, you take your time. I don't want it to open again."
"Don't worry. What about the nose?"
"Well, I can't breathe through it. I'm swallowing a lot of blood in the back."
"Is it making you sick?"
"Now, Jimmy," said his wife, "tell the doctor. Please tell him."
"Well...it's my hand, my left one. I can't move this hand. I can't make a fist. It's the thumb. It's throbbing like hell."