In that third round, and in the fourth and fifth, Loughran taunted Braddock, making Jim madder and madder. The angrier he got, the more futile right-hand punches Braddock threw, until he was lurching ludicrously around the ring to boos and catcalls from the capacity crowd. In the opening of the seventh round, however, Braddock was able to connect with a sweeping upward blow that grazed Loughran’s nose and forehead and brought another torrent of blood.
But Tommy Loughran was far from defeated. After that staggering blow, he stepped up and delivered a right cross to Jim Braddock that set his knees wobbling. That was the beginning of the end of Jim’s hopes. During the rest of the bout, Braddock connected one last time—a right-hand wallop in the twelfth round. Unfortunately, by then Braddock’s stamina was at its lowest ebb, and Loughran brushed off the blow and came back swinging.
In the heartbreaking fifteen-round decision, the judges ruled that Jim Braddock had dominated his opponent in only two of them, and champion Tommy Loughran retained his title by unanimous decision. Even worse, Jim Braddock had plodded through the final three rounds, offering one of the worst performances of his career, as taunts and insults were hurled at him from the crowd. Those insults continued in the newspaper accounts the next day, which featured the canonization of Loughran, who was compared to Gene Tunney and would go down in boxing history as one of the greatest, while James J. Braddock was pronounced finished and advised to go back to Cauliflower Alley…
“I don’t know what went wrong.”
Freezing in the shadow of the Garden, Jim whispered the same thoughts he’d confessed to Gould after the Loughran fight.
In Jim’s view, fate had conspired to interrupt his meteoric rise as a boxer, but it was the crash of 1929 that had finished him. Maybe all those losses that came after Loughran would have been wins if those fights hadn’t come in the midst of his losing everything—all his hard-earned savings, his taxicab business, his security, his home. The crash had robbed Jim of more than money; it had robbed him of his optimism and confidence. It had sent his family into poverty and stolen his ability to see himself as golden, to fight like a winner.
Using his good left hand, Jim yanked open the side door of the arena and moved through its deserted corridors. His casted hand ached as he trudged slowly up the flight of stairs. It was the longest, hardest climb of his life.
The boxing club occupied a large private space inside the Garden. Its walls comprised dark wood covered with black-and-white photographs of prominent fighters from the last three decades posed in a variety of stances. Drinks were served from a rich mahogany bar, leather chairs and heavy tables topped with Tiffany lamps were scattered about the polished oak floor, and all of it was burnished by the bloody-gold flames from a massive fireplace.
Two dozen well-dressed managers, promoters, and professional oddsmakers drank, talked, and played cards in the rarified air of this enclave, only a few stories above the street but miles above the ravages of the ongoing Depression. Here they wheeled and dealed, sipped aged scotch, and angled to close prime matchups for their most promising fighters. The tall tales and good-natured insults were flying as thick as the cigar smoke, and at first no one noticed Jim Braddock willing himself to walk to the center of the room.
As two promoters burst into loud guffaws, Jim stepped up to them. “Mr. Allen…Phil…”
The men stared, taking in Braddock’s bedraggled appearance without comment. Others noticed his presence and the conversations slowly died. The once great fighter cleared his throat and said, “Thing is, I can’t afford to pay the heat. Had to farm out my kids…”
Jim’s voice broke just then. He looked down at the floor and swallowed hard.
“They keep cutting shifts at the dock. You don’t get picked every day…Just need enough to catch up.”
The shame was almost too much to bear.
“Went to the relief office. Gave me twelve eighty. I need thirteen sixty more. To pay the bill. Get them back.” Girding himself, he slowly looked up. “It pains me to ask…so much…but I sure would be grateful…”
Jim took off his hat and stretched it out, like the panhandlers on the street below.
The room was speechless now, the men uncomfortable with this specter of defeat among them. Finally, Mr. Allen dug into his pocket. “Sure, Jim, sure,” he said and spilled several coins into Jim’s hat.
“Thank you,” Jim replied, then moved through the room, offering his hat. Every man gave, including the big one, Jimmy Johnston, the very promoter who’d suspended his boxing license and shut down his career.
Braddock completely circled the club. He stopped in front of Joe Gould only when there was no one else left. “I’m sorry, Joe,” Braddock told him sincerely.
“What the hell do you have to be sorry about? Jesus, Jim,” said Gould. “How short are you?”
Jim, who’d been counting as he went, replied in a hoarse whisper. “A buck fifty, I think…”
Gould winced, then reached into his rumpled suit and drew out his wallet, placing the exact amount into Jim’s battered hat.
“Joe…”
But Joe Gould looked away, swallowed his drink. “Don’t…don’t mention it, Jimmy,” he murmured.
With a final nod, Jim departed, his shoulders squared, his spine straight. He descended the long stairs, exited the side door, and passed the vagrants huddling around the trash-can fire.
Night had fallen and streetlights had already flickered on, illuminating the icy sidewalks. A few steps down the avenue, Jim walked by a store that had gone out of business. In the mirrored surface of the darkened glass, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and his steps slowed.
He’d seen that expression before, he realized. Years ago. On men his father’s age, who’d lowered themselves to work those errand-boy jobs he’d held through his teens. It was the look of the man standing tall in his dusty suit to sell apples on Eighth Avenue, the face of the banker, in all his patched finery, waiting on line for hours at the Newark relief office, his hand out for pitiable public charity.
Jim had never before understood what it would take to make a man with such obvious pride willingly lower himself to such shattering depths. Tonight, with the money in his pocket to get his children back, Jim knew. Tonight, he finally understood.
The next night, Mae opened the door to their basement apartment and flicked on a light switch that actually worked. A golden glow finally dispelled the dismal shadows of the tiny space.
The door opened wider and Jay and Howard ran inside, followed by Jim, who was carrying the sleeping Rosy, draped over the cast on his arm. Mae took Rosy from him and put the girl to bed while the boys chased each other around the small space, happy and grateful to be home again.
Jim, dark rings circling his tired eyes, drank in the sight like a thirsty beggar—joyful, relieved, and terrified at the same time. He was happy to see his family united, but now far too aware of how fragile their lives had become, how easily their world could be torn apart.
He couldn’t sleep that night. He burned to change things, but he didn’t know how. He only knew he would, at first opportunity.
The night before the Tuffy Griffiths fight, he’d felt like this too, keyed up and on edge. Jim had nothing real to battle tomorrow, no one he could actually haul off and punch, but he ached sorely for an opponent to face, someone to stand toe to toe with and fight.
Lying quiet and still, Jim listened to his wife’s steady breathing, waited for the endless night to wane. At last, as the first rays of dawn peeked around the basement curtains, Jim rose and dressed silently. Before he left for the day to go to the loading dock, the coal company, the rail yards, or whoever would pay him a day’s wage, he stood at the door and gazed at his family, unable to shake the fear that they would be gone—vanished, like his career and his fortune—by the time he returned home again.
A boxer entered the ring alone. If knocked down, he alone could pick himself up and keep the fight going. As Jim walked out the door and toward the
winter sunrise, he grasped in a whole new way why those were the rules of his game.
ROUND SEVEN
I don’t care who you are and how great you are, you’re going to get hit…you have to be able to disregard pain.
—Tommy Loughran,
Light heavyweight champion of the world, 1927–1929
Newark, New Jersey
June 13, 1934
Paper streamers fluttered on warm gusts, brightening a Newark churchyard. The worst winter in years had faded finally, thawing the icy streets and transforming the freezing winds off Newark Bay into mild breezes.
The Braddocks had joined a dozen other families for the once-a-month birthday party mounted by their Catholic parish for children whose parents could not afford private celebrations. Jim stood beside Mae, while his children joined a dozen others around a weather-beaten picnic table, where two sheet cakes blazed with candles. As Father Rorick led the families in a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” Jim circled his wife’s thin waist with his right arm, his hand finally free of its cast.
“Happy birthday to you…Happy birthday to you…” sang the crowd. When it was time to insert the child’s name, the members of each family leaned in and sang a Babel-like jumble—
“Mitchell…Junior…Philip…Lisa…Bill…”
Mae leaned over her oldest boy and sang “Jay…”
“Happy birthday to you…” The children blew out the candles to a burst of applause. Howard tugged his father’s arm. “I liked it more when we had our own cake.”
Father Rorick overheard the remark and quickly spoke up. “Your dad every tell you I used to spar with him?”
Howard blinked in surprise, then shot a horrified look at his dad. “You hit the Father?”
Jim Braddock grinned. “As often as possible.” He shared his smile with the priest as Howard took off with the other kids to eat cake and bat around the colorful balloons.
Father Rorick faced Braddock. “We miss you in service, Jim,” he said.
Braddock frowned, glanced away. “I get an extra shift.”
Rorick nodded but didn’t walk away. He stood quietly and waited for Jim to do the talking. The wait was a long one, but eventually Jim asked, “You ever ask yourself, what’s the reason?”
“He has his reasons. We are his children, Jim.”
“I’m sure he does, Tom,” Braddock replied, his eyes following the gang of scrawny children in their tattered clothes. “But how would you feel about me if I treated my kids like this?”
Father Rorick was about to reply when Mae arrived, her expression troubled. “James…” she said.
Jim followed his wife’s anxious gaze toward angry cries across the yard. Mike, his partner at the docks was sitting at the end of a long table, obviously drunk. His wife Sara, infant daughter in her arms, was shouting at him while the little girl squirmed and cried.
“Every day, fix the world,” Sara charged. “How about fixing your family? What kind of father are you? Too proud to cross the lawn because she can’t have her own birthday cake…And now you’re drunk at church, for Christ’s sake.”
Mike leaned into his wife’s face. “That a joke, Sara? Are you making a joke?”
Sara pushed him away. “I’m just saying it’s enough.”
All eyes were on them. Even the children halted their antics to gape. Mike smirked, knees wobbly, and opened his mouth to speak. Jim walked over and stepped between them, separating the angry couple.
“Hey, where’s the ref?” he asked lightly.
Mike reeked of rot-gut booze and bad temper. He frowned at Braddock. “This is between husband and wife, Jim.”
“How do you even call yourself that?” Sara cried, her baby hanging from her arm.
Mike lurched toward her, Jim stopped him with a firm hand to the middle of his chest. “Easy there, Mike. Maybe you’ve had a couple. No harm in that. Day of rest, after all…”
Jim had tried to keep his tone light, but Mike wasn’t taking anything lightly. He glared, jaw moving, face flushed. “That the way it is? Man’ll take your beer long as you’re paying…” Mike shoved Braddock, who shook off the push without budging.
“There’s no need for you to do this.” Jim’s voice was soft but firm.
Mike sneered. “Jim Braddock, big fighter…”
Jim easily slapped away Mike’s punch, then grabbed the man’s arm to steady him. Mike yanked himself away, stumbled.
“Mike, I got no beef with you.”
“Couldn’t make it in the ring…Why not take it out on his pal—”
Mike lunged for Jim again. Jim shoved the man aside and he tumbled to the concrete, smacking his head against the pavement. Blood gushed. Sara screamed, “Jim, no!”
As Mike stumbled to his feet, a scarlet torrent flowed from his scalp. Sara raced to his side, still clutching her baby. Mike pushed her away, glared at Jim, then his wife.
“Go to hell,” he said. “Both of you.”
Then Mike turned and fled the churchyard, ran down the street. When he was gone, Sara faced Jim, tears drowning her cheeks, her baby wailing in her arms.
“Jesus, Jim. He wasn’t going to hit me…Jesus.”
Finally, Sara hurried away, chasing after her husband. Jim looked up to find Mae standing a few feet away, tears in her own eyes. “Why was it so hard just to come over for the cake?” she asked.
Adrenaline pumping, Jim flared. “Maybe he just needed a little time, all right? It’s not so damned easy…Maybe he just needed a little time!”
Mae came right back at him. “Not at me, James Braddock,” she cried, finger shaking. “Do you hear? I know it’s hard. But not…at…me.”
Hours later, afternoon light spilled onto the worn, cracked paving stones in front of the Braddocks’ tenement. As Jim walked down his street, he noticed neighborhood kids of varying ages—Jay and Howard among them—playing stickball. On a stoop in front of their apartment house, Rosy sat watching her brothers. Jim joined her. As Jay chased a stray ball, he called, “No second shift at the yards, Dad?”
Jim stepped off the stoop, jostling his son playfully. “Yeah, but they only want kids. Go grab a shovel.”
Jay grinned, snapped up the ball, and tossed it to his playmates. As he ran off, Jim tried to hide the worry in his eyes.
He turned to find Rosy watching him, eyes puzzled. Standing on the stoop, she was nearly the same height as her father. “Were you and that man fighting?”
“We were almost fighting.”
Rosy put up her tiny hands, which were balled into little fists. “Teach me how.”
Jim shook his head. “I can’t, honey.”
“Why not?”
Jim’s eyes drifted to the door. “Because the cops might come back.”
Rosy lowered her arms. “You mean Mommy?”
Jim nodded. Rosy put her hands on her hips. “You can too. Teach me, Daddy.”
He tried to stare down his daughter, but Rosy was too much like her mother. When she threw him the knockout punch of all looks, he relented.
“Look,” he began. “It’s about the balance. Put your right here, twist your hips and throw that one—” As he gave instructions, he positioned the girl until she was posed like a tiny Gene Tunney. She squinted in concentration, then threw. Jim caught her fist in his big mitt.
“Wow, look at that!” he cried. “You got a better jab than I did.”
As he and Rosy laughed, a familiar car rolled up to the curb, and the window rolled down.
“You are a brave man,” called Joe Gould.
Jim smiled at his ex-manager. “Not really. Mae’s at the store.”
Rosy, still concentrating on her boxing lesson, let fly with another jab. Standing on the high stoop, she was high enough to clock her father square in the jaw. He blinked, impressed at her pint-size power.
“Okay, darling. Good shot. Now shadowbox while I talk to Uncle Joe.”
Rosy pummeled the air as Jim walked up to Joe’s roadster. Joe climbed out and Jim bru
shed the man’s lapels. Gould’s suit looked brand new.
“Still looking dapper, I see.”
Gould shrugged. “Gotta keep up appearances.” Then he smiled and punched Braddock’s arm. “Good to see you, Jimmy.” Gould looked around, checking out the street. Jim leaned against his car, waiting. “Nice day,” said Joe.
Braddock leaned close to his ex-manager. “You drive all the way out here to talk about the weather?”
Gould shrugged again. “Maybe I was in the neighborhood.”
“Joe, this is Jersey.”
Only then did Gould laugh. “A point.” He waited a moment, then spoke again. “I got you a fight.”
“Go to hell.”
“You want it, don’t you?”
Braddock seemed doubtful. “What about the commission?”
“They’ll sanction it. This one time and one time only.” Gould frowned. “This isn’t a comeback. This is one fight.”
Braddock thought about it for a moment. “Why?”
“Because of who you’re—”
Braddock brushed that question aside for a more important one. “How much?”
Gould shook his head, grinning. “Just once, ask me who you’re fighting.”
Braddock faced him. “How much?”
“Two hundred and fifty,” Gould replied. “You’re on the big show at the Garden…” Joe paused before delivering the bombshell “…tomorrow night.”
Braddock turned and walked away. Jim had been partners with Gould for years. He couldn’t believe the man would amuse himself this way, ribbing an old friend with a joke like this one.
Gould chased after him, coattails flying. “You fight Corn Griffin, Jimmy…number-two heavyweight contender in the world. Prelim before the championship bout…”
Jim faced him, eyes dangerous. “Joe, this isn’t funny.”
Cinderella Man Page 9
