Cinderella Man (16 page)

Gould had laughed when he saw his words printed in the paper the next morning—until Lucille reminded her husband that Mae Braddock would be reading them as well.

 

The honk of a passing newspaper truck interrupted Gould's revelry. He sucked on his cold stogie, then tossed it into the street. At the top of the stairs, Gould found George Robbins in the ring, punching air while Braddock sat alone in the corner, face grim, a flak jacket wrapped tightly around his torso.

Gould frowned and approached Joe Jeannette. “What's wrong with him?”

“Came in. Warmed up. Hasn't said two words.”

Gould studied his fighter, unhappy to see the flak jacket. “So, how's he doing?”

Jeannette shrugged. “He's in the best shape of his life. But he's old, he's arthritic, and his ribs aren't right since Lasky.”

Gould knew about the ribs, fretted about them, too—just like Joe Jeannette. But he also sensed something else was bothering Braddock. Maybe it was money, which was bothering everybody. Or maybe it was personal. Braddock had a wife who wasn't particularly happy about his choice of profession, and a family he had to clothe and house and feed. Thankfully, Joe Gould could only imagine what that was like.

Well, whatever the issue, Braddock sure didn't have time to deal with it now. Not with the title fight just hours away.

Braddock stood just then, faced his manager. But before they could speak, a bucket boy hurried up to them, spoke into Gould's ear.

“The press is here,” said Gould. “Peel that rig off or Baer'll see you got a rib problem.”

Jim stripped off the flak jacket and the bucket boy hustled it out of sight. A crowd of jostling men rolled up the steps and burst into the gym. A few began barking questions as soon as they spied the challenger. Gould watched, frowning, as Braddock turned his back on the clamoring mob and climbed into the ring.

 

After the morning antics staged for the press had ended, Gould was summoned to Jimmy Johnston's of
fice for a last-minute powwow concerning what the press called “the referee problem.” The issue started when the New York Boxing Commission named Jack Dempsey as referee for the title fight. Braddock objected—not on personal grounds, as he was a great admirer of the former champ. Jim was upset with the choice because at one time, Dempsey had trained Max Baer, and had owned a piece of the fighter once too.

Jim and Joe Gould both doubted they would get a fair shake. Gould told the commission that any ref they named was fine with Braddock, so long as his last name wasn't Dempsey.

Meanwhile Baer's manager, Ancil Hoffman, objected strenuously to the commission's second choice, an experienced ref named Arthur Donovan. Donovan had refereed the Carnera versus Baer fight. Though Baer was declared the winner hands down, both Baer and Ancil thought Donovan shortchanged them with his final score. During the weeks that the dispute had raged in the press and in the commission, neither side had given in. Despite the hastily called meeting with the commission on the very day of the fight, it appeared that Baer and Braddock were going into the title bout without knowing who their referee would be.

After the press vanished to file their stories and Gould departed for the city, Jim told Jeannette he wanted to spar some more, but Joe refused. “Go home, Jim. Get some rest. You're gonna get plenty enough sparring tonight.”

So Jim Braddock went home, unsure of the welcome he would receive. He came through the front door, leaned his rucksack against the wall. The house was empty except for Mae, who stood silently at the
kitchen table, the daily newspaper spread flat on its surface.

Jim smiled a greeting but Mae looked away. Her face was tight, closed. A wall. Her back to him, Mae crossed to the sink, then walked away.

Alone at the kitchen table, Jim read the headline.

 

WORLD CHAMPION FIGHT TONIGHT
BAER VERSUS BRADDOCK IN
LONG ISLAND CITY BOWL
MANY WORRY FOR BRADDOCK'S LIFE

 

Jim walked stoically to the bed, began to undress. He lay sleepless and alone as the sun crossed the sky and morning became afternoon.

At four o'clock a cab arrived and waited on the street, engine idling. Local well-wishers began to gather in front of the tenement house. His kids were out there with them, romping and playing.

Mae stood at the basement window, her slim form tense, face pale. Something split open inside him as he watched the afternoon sun gleam golden through her brown hair, saw how her blue eyes reflected the sky. At that moment, he longed to touch her, pull her into his arms.

She followed him out the door, and he made his way to the street, shaking hands and accepting his neighbors' benedictions.

“Go get 'em, Jimmy!”

“Come home with that title, now!”

“Knock him out!”

“You show 'em!”

“We're behind ya all the way!”

Howard raced up to him. Jim snatched his son's belt, lifted the squirming boy, lowered his head and kissed his forehead. Still cradling his youngest son, Jim bent lower to kiss Jay too. The boy smiled up at him. His smile was proud, but his brow was crinkled with worry. Little Rosy was next. Jim caught her up in a bear hug, buried his face in her sweet dark hair.

The crowd grew even bigger, the shouts more zealous. Finally, Jim released his daughter and faced his wife. For a moment Mae didn't move. Then she stretched up and kissed him.

He bent close, his eyes asking, hoping. “I can't win if you're not behind me.”

“Then don't go, Jimmy.”

The moment hung into forever, each waiting for the other to relent. Finally, Mae turned and pulled the children close. Jim watched as she pushed her way back through the throng, taking the children with her as the crowd closed ranks, swallowing them up.

Jim climbed into the waiting car, slumped into the cushioned seat. An hour later, the cab was rolling through the canyons of Manhattan's skyscrapers. They crossed town along Forty-second Street, passed Times Square and idled at a long Sixth-Avenue red light. Jim sat up straighter in his seat, peered curiously at the sight ahead.

“What's that?” he asked the driver.

“What's what?”

Jim pointed.

“Bryant Park,” the driver said in a “where
you
been anyways?” tone. Then he laughed. “Sorry, Mr. Braddock. Guess you ain't been getting' around much…with your trainin' and all.”

The cabbie kept talking. Told Jim that New York City had a new mayor now. Jimmy Walker, that crooked official who'd previously held the office and done little to nothing to help the city's destitute and unemployed, had been convicted of corruption and run out of town by a crusading judge. Now a man by the name of La Guardia was mayor.

After the worst winter in recent memory, the new mayor had gone to see President Roosevelt, secured federal assistance, hired a city parks Commissioner by the name of Robert Moses and got six hundred unemployed architects and engineers working again. Then they'd hired field superintendents and unemployed men.

By the time summer's warmth sent the people of New York into their parks again, the citizens discovered that something had changed. Those newly employed crews had completed seven hundred different renovation projects. They'd repaved thirty-eight miles of cracked walks, repaired countless broken fences, repainted buildings and benches, reseeded lawns, resurfaced ruined tennis courts, and planted more than ten thousand trees.

In Central Park there was a new zoo, and one in Brooklyn's Prospect Park too. More playgrounds and swimming pools were being planned for the future including one in Astoria, Queens, that would accommodate 6,200 bathers. And there were big plans for the New York shorelines, from the Bronx to Brooklyn and Queens—talk of new beaches and parkways, new construction…all of which meant new jobs.

Jim gazed at Bryant Park, stunned. He remembered
only a seedy lot being there—an empty five-acre space of weeds and wandering vagrants with the crumbling remains of a plaster statue at the west end. All that was gone now. In the heart of midtown Manhattan sat a completely green space. A formal garden with two hundred London plane trees, flagstone walkways, and a large, elegant stone fountain. It was a beautiful space, remade by an army of unemployed—for all the public to enjoy.

The cabbie drove on. As they crossed the East River to the borough of Queens, Jim rode silently, preparing his mind for the fight, running the Baer fight films through his head again and again, hearing Jeannette's words, Gould's advice, trying for anything that would block out Mae's stony face, her cold words.

Finally, the car rolled down Northern Boulevard and pulled up to the Madison Square Garden Bowl, Jim gazed out the window at the mob standing outside the outdoor arena, waiting to get in. Men and women, young and old. Their clothes were worn and tattered, their faces creased with the hard struggles they went through every day of their lives. Yet they had a bright look in their eyes—expectation, possibility, hope. Jim caught a reflection in the car window, saw himself in the midst of all that.

He studied his face in the window, and recognized something about it. Gone forever was the self-assured man who'd KO'd Tuffy Griffiths with ease. Gone too was the hopeless wretch who passed his hat at the boxing club and accepted relief from the government to feed his family. In its place was every man who'd ever
been savagely beaten down by hard times yet wouldn't stop fighting.

That's when Jim knew. No matter what happened tonight—whether he walked away with the title, or perished inside the ropes—Jim would not give in. He would die trying.

 

On the streets of Long Island City, Queens, the temperature soared above eighty degrees before noon and continued to rise. In Jim Braddock's expansive dressing room at the Madison Square Garden Bowl, a clattering fan provided a sultry breeze that did little to cut the torridity.

Jim sweated in his trunks, robe draped over a chair. He was waiting for the weigh-in ceremony to begin. Thirty minutes ago they had been told “any minute” by one of Jimmy Johnston's lackeys. Meanwhile the physician and judge had arrived and were ready to preside, the commissioners were on their second cigars, and the press was clamoring. The only thing missing was Max Baer.

“There's Jimmy Johnston, puffing like a chimney,” said Joe Gould. He stood at the dressing door, open a crack. “Leave it to Madcap Maxie to be late for his own funeral.” Gould crossed the room. “Are you hot? I'm hot.”

“It's hot, Joe.”

Three powerful knocks. The third swung the door open and it banged the wall. Max Baer filled the doorway, silk robe flowing over his hard-muscled frame like a blue waterfall. He made for Jim right away, a half sneer, half smile plastered on his face. Gould, a pit
bull in sea-green trousers and yellow polo shirt, leaped between the fighters.

“Get away from here, you bum,” snarled Gould, poking his finger into Baer's hard-muscled chest.

Baer stopped, looked over Gould's head, to Braddock.

“I got something to say—”

“If you got anything to say, say it tonight—in the ring,” Gould cried.

Ancil Hoffman appeared, tie loose, harried. He pushed the champ out of the dressing room.

“Yeah, all right, I'll go,” Baer said peevishly. In the hallway, Baer lashed out at another spectator, Mike Cantwell, his old trainer. The fight world knew they hadn't parted on good terms. Flashbulbs popped and angry words were exchanged.

Gould slammed the dressing room door, twisted the lock. “It's like a goddamn dime novel out there.”

After that, Gould strutted like a bantam. “I sure fixed Baer's wagon,” he crowed, chest puffed.

“You sure did,” said Jim.

Another knock. “Five minutes,” barked a voice.

Jim rose. Gould lifted the robe and held it. “Ready, champ,” he said, slapping a broad shoulder.

“Ain't we jumping the gun, Joe? Last time I looked, I was the challenger.”

“I says champ and champ I meant,” Gould replied. “You better get used to it, Jimmy boy.”

In the hallway, General Phelan, the New York Boxing Commission head, was admonishing Baer and the sputtering Mike Cantwell, an elderly gent in a straw hat.

“Here, here, cut that out.” Phelan sniffed. “I'm running this thing and I want order.”

Peace was restored. Joe and Jim squirmed through the throng packed into the weigh-in room. Among the swarm of officials, reporters, photographers, and handlers, the heat was so furious it seemed like hell had opened and the devil was breathing fire in every direction.

Jimmy Johnston looked on as Max Baer, in black trunks, stepped up to the officials. Johnston, angry over Baer's late arrival, couldn't hide his sneer. Flashbulbs popped as the heavyweight champion stripped off his robe, threw up his fists, and climbed onto the scale.

“Two hundred and ten pounds,” the judge declared.

Already down to his navy blue trunks, which were emblazoned with a large green shamrock, Jim climbed onto the scale.

“One hundred and ninety-one pounds,” said the judge.

Braddock stepped down—and into the path of Max Baer. The champ shook his head.

“How's the story go?” roared Madcap Maxie, mugging for the press. “The clock strikes midnight, the coach”—He shot a look at Joe Gould—“turns into a pumpkin, and the Cinderella Man loses her skirt.”

Laughter rippled the crowd. Gould glowered. Braddock shrugged, unfazed. When Baer flashed a dangerous grin at Jim, Braddock grinned back.

Around them flashbulbs exploded like heat lightning.

 

“Watch it, now…Here it comes. Right there…Art Lasky wailed him good…”

Max leaned forward in his chair as he watched the movie screen—grainy black-and-white footage of
Lasky versus Braddock. As Baer watched, Lasky moved in, slammed Braddock's torso and the Irishman reeled.