When we took off his left glove we noticed a hole in the leather. I said, "Look at this." It was from hitting Frazier in the mouth. One of his teeth made that hole. I'm telling you I never seen anything like that. Never!
Yank Durham was out of patience. His dressing room, which was next door to that of his fighter, Joe Frazier, was as hot as jungle undergrowth. Only one writer was still in there, his shirt plastered against his back, and he was pressing Yank to find out what had happened and why. Durham was dressing as he answered, wrenching his belt tight in a gesture of petulance. "What a stupid bunch of questions! What happened? He got hit. Didn't we all see the same fight? He got hit and he fell down. What happened to Marciano when he got hit? What happened to Joe Louis? He fell down. It's no mystery."
The dressing-room door opened, a quick glimpse of policemen outside, and the last fighter on the night's card came back from the ring, Willie (The Worm) Munroe, a promising middleweight from Durham's stable.
Yank Durham looked up. "How'd you do, Worm?"
"Left hook. Took him with the left hook."
"That's good, Worm. When?"
"Good work, Worm."
The fighter, wearing a green-trimmed robe, sat on the edge of the rubbing table. He wanted to exult, but the mood of the room was thick with despair.