Cinderella Man

by Marc Cerasini

  “Suit up and let me see how much you’ve forgotten,” Jeannette told him. When Jim returned from the locker room, wearing boxing shoes, black trunks and six-ounce bag gloves, Joe Jeannette whistled. “You been training, Jimmy. Don’t know where, but you haven’t been training here.”

  “I’ve been working, Joe. Not training.”

  “Work? You mean to tell me you built that left from working? Show me.”

  “Huh?” Braddock grunted.

  “Show me what you did when you were working.”

  Braddock shrugged. “Well, after I busted my right hand, I took a job at the docks. Heavy lifting, mostly. Moving freight around with a tie-hook.” As he talked, Jim demonstrated his technique to the seasoned trainer—a swift punching motion with his left arm that sank the hook into a bale, which enabled him to lift and carry his end of the heavy freight. “After the cast came off, I started switching hands. But went to my left a lot anyway…out of habit.”

  Jeannette nodded. “That’s because your right is your weaker arm now—but don’t worry about that. You were always a hitter and we can fix your right in a couple of weeks.”

  “And my left?”

  “That move you showed me with the hook, it’s the perfect punching exercise. Your forearms—” Jeannette held them up. “You can see that the left is bigger, thicker than your right. You’ve been developing a lethal left and you didn’t even know it. You were always right-hand crazy. That was your weakness. But you had a power punch so it didn’t matter. But now—”

  Jim lowered his arms, ducked into a fighting stance and threw a few air punches.

  “Still got your old form, your old stance,” Jeannette noted. “Guess we’ll have to work on that, too.”

  Braddock straightened. “What’s wrong with my stance?”

  “Nothing,” Joe replied. “For a boxer who’s right-hand crazy. But you’ve got the potential to become an all-around fighter now, so you better start to train like one.”

  Jim moved around in a tight circle, throwing more jabs.

  “You went hungry, too,” Jeannette said softly. “I can tell.” Jim flushed crimson. “No shame in that,” he added. “Not these days. Good news is that all that hard work and no food has made you slim and chiseled and tough as nails. You’re lean and lethal now, Braddock, no question about that. But I’m gonna make you even better.”

  Jeannette slapped Jim on his naked back. “Now lay into the bag. We’ll see what we have to do next.”

  In the ensuing weeks, under the coaching of Joe Jeannette, Jim Braddock built up his right, increased his stamina, and put on a few pounds of solid, rock-hard muscle. After all those months of toiling for a living—at the docks, the rail yard, the coal shuttle—training with Jeannette seemed like a vacation. But nothing Jeannette taught him came easily. The man pushed Jim hard, and every week there came a new exercise, a new brace of skills and techniques to practice and absorb.

  One afternoon, as they were working on Jim’s timing in the center ring, a visitor crept up the rickety stairs and lurked in the shadows of the doorway. Joe Gould quietly watched as Jim Braddock pounded a punching bag to the rhythm of Joe Jeannette’s banging tambourine.

  “Faster, Jim. Pick it up! Come on…”

  Jeannette cracked the instrument even faster, making it clang right behind Braddock’s ears. Jim redoubled his efforts, delivering a fast flurry of powerful, alternating blows that dented the heavy leather bag and set it swinging on its hook despite the best efforts of the corner man to keep it steady.

  Gould grinned and stepped up to the ropes, moving among a collection of lean, tough-looking youths in boxing gear who were also watching the action.

  Jim spied Gould and paused. Jeannette smacked him on the back of the head with his tambourine. “Okay, okay, you got your left back. Big deal. Don’t lock the knee. And you gotta be quicker.”

  Jim Braddock placed both gloves on the bag and pummeled it. As he threw, he tossed a glance at his manager. “You get me that fight yet?”

  Gould smirked. “I tell you how to do your job?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gould nodded. “A point.”

  Jim slapped the bag around a few more times, then caught it. The fighters outside the ring were moving closer to the ropes. Jim looked at them, then at Jeannette.

  “Now what I got here is five pure fools thinking it would be an honor to get their heads beat in by you,” said the gym owner.

  Braddock sized them up. They were all big, strong heavyweights and light heavyweights with lean, hard muscles—some outweighed him and some had a longer reach. All were younger than Braddock by at least five years, and none of them looked like they ever skipped a meal, let alone stood in a long soup line to get one. Jim nodded. “Good.”

  He climbed out of the ring and shook his glove at Jeannette. “But I want a welterweight too. One with some spit and polish.”

  “That would be George,” said Jeannette, directing Jim’s attention to a compact fighter sparring on a mat in the corner. His fists were a blur, striking with a speed the wind would envy. George paused and saw Jim Braddock staring. Braddock lifted his glove, pointed with it. “Him.”

  George locked eyes with Jim Braddock, then looked past him to Jeannette. “He’s still gonna have to pay me,” George warned. “Even after I whup his ass.”

  Braddock smiled, knowing Jeannette had chosen the perfect sparring partner.

  When Joe Gould left Jeannette’s gym and climbed into his roadster, he was grinning too. He was still smiling an hour later when he waltzed into Jimmy Johnston’s office at Madison Square Garden and planted himself in an easy chair across the desk from the busy promoter.

  “You’re going to sanction a bout between Jim Braddock and John Henry Lewis,” Gould said.

  Johnston looked up from the papers he was signing. The big man sighed and dropped the pen, leaned back in his chair. “Now what am I going to go and do that for?”

  “You saw the papers. News had to run extra copies day after Braddock’s fight.” Gould flashed a confident smile. “People are sentimental.”

  “Yeah,” Johnston replied. “So, tell me why I care.”

  Gould offered a bit of sympathy. “I get it. You’re still sore over the way Braddock took down Griffin. Fine. I can understand that. It was a heartbreak. But look…”

  Gould reached into his jacket and produced two fresh, expensive Cuban cigars. He carefully slid one across the desk toward Johnston, unwrapped his own.

  Gould began his pitch. “You got guys fighting an elimination series over who gets a shot at Max Baer for the championship next June…”

  It wasn’t a question, and Johnston didn’t deny or confirm the rumor that had been racing through fight circles all over the country.

  “John Henry Lewis is your number two in line after Primo Carnera,” said Gould. “And Lewis already beat Braddock once in San Francisco.”

  Gould leaned across Johnston’s desk, offered him the flame from a sputtering Zippo. “Now, say you put Braddock back in the game against Lewis. Lewis wins, you get your revenge on Braddock, and your boy’s had a top-flight tune-up with full publicity before Lasky, so what happens?”

  Johnston puffed silently, staring into the corner. Gould slapped his desk. “I’ll tell you what happens. You make some money.”

  Jimmy Johnston sat back, blowing smoke rings and considering the fading circles.

  “Now, say by some minute, infinitesimal chance, Braddock beats Lewis,” Gould continued. “You got a sentimental favorite to go up and lose against Lasky, and what happens? You make more money. Either way, you’re richer with Braddock back in the ring than if he’s not. And we both know the name of this game…” Gould rubbed finger to thumb—sign language for what every promoter in this game loved. “And it sure as hell isn’t boxing.”

  This time it was Gould who sat back in his chair and silently puffed on his Cuban, savoring the smoke.

  Johnston shook his head in awed dismay. “They should put y
our mouth in a circus, Gould.”

  “Yeah. So what do you say?”

  Mike Wilson was sitting in the bleachers watching Jim Braddock spar with the welterweight named George when Joe Gould returned to the gym. Gould strolled up to the ropes as the fighters traded punches, distracting Jim long enough for George to land a blow to his chin. Braddock stepped backward and shot his manager a curious look.

  “I got you a fight,” Gould announced.

  Jim lifted his gloves to stop the bout. He walked to the ropes and stared down at his manager.

  “You’re gonna fight John Henry Lewis again,” said Gould.

  Braddock climbed between the ropes and landed on the hardwood. “I could kiss you.”

  Gould backed away. “Say I was to beg you not to?”

  Jim frowned. “Isn’t Lewis one of Johnston’s boys? And isn’t John Henry managed by some racketeer named Greenlee these days?”

  “You let me worry about that,” Gould replied.

  Braddock grinned knowingly. “No wonder you won’t pucker up. Bet you’re all kissed out already.”

  Mike hopped down from the bleachers, approached the pair. “Lewis? He killed us in ’Frisco.”

  Gould raised an eyebrow. “Us? Who’s this? Who’s us?”

  “Hey, Mike,” said Jim, raising a glove. “No shifts today?”

  “Lewis hasn’t been beaten in ten fights,” said Mike, ignoring the question.

  “Joe Gould, Mike Wilson,” said Jim by way of introduction. Gould looked at Mike, opened his mouth to speak—then shook his head. He reached around Braddock’s broad shoulders and steered him to a corner.

  “I ain’t gonna bullshit you. Right now you’re fodder, Jimmy. Fodder,” Gould told him, eliciting a wince from Braddock. “But you win one and I can get you another. Win again and things maybe start getting serious.”

  Jim nodded, appreciating his manager’s candor, if not his tact. Without a second glance, Braddock moved toward the heavy bag.

  “Jimmy,” Gould called.

  Braddock turned back, saw the old fire in his manager’s eyes.

  “Win,” said Gould.

  The two men exchanged looks, and Gould departed. Braddock watched him go, then called over his shoulder. “Hey Mike, come hold the bag for me.”

  Jim placed his boxing shoes and his trunks into a paper bag on the bed. Golden light from the autumn sunset spilled into the room from the low windows. The paper crackled, and Jim stood in thought for a moment, already beginning to prepare mentally for the fight ahead.

  Braddock turned to face his wife. Mae’s face was pale as she folded the children’s clothes, trying to hide her anxiety.

  “I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Jim said softly.

  Mae looked up from the laundry. Jim shifted on his feet, glanced at the floor, then into her eyes. “But I can’t win if you’re not behind me.”

  Mae set the clothes aside. Then she stepped up to her husband and leaned against him, her lips brushing his. “I’m always behind you,” she whispered, holding him close.

  As they embraced, Rosy signaled her brothers that the coast was clear. Jay and Howard escaped the apartment and raced quietly into the hall. Moments later, Rosy joined them, and they followed her out to the street. On the sidewalk, the children wormed their way through a crowd that had gathered in front of their building.

  The trio burst into the butcher shop a moment later. Sam was weighing up some ham when the tinkling bell over the door interrupted him. He peered over the counter, to find Rosy—flanked by her stoic bodyguards—looking up at him.

  “Rose Marie. Jay. Howard,” said Sam suspiciously. “What can I do for you today?”

  Rosy, her pale face pinched with concern, spoke. “My daddy’s fighting a man who beat the living bee-Jesus out of him last time. What kind of steaks you got?”

  Down the block, Jim emerged into the perfect fall evening to enthusiastic yells and a smattering of applause from the tenement neighbors gathered around his front stoop. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the ragtag group clustered around him, slapping his back, pumping his hand.

  “We’re rooting for you, Jim,” said an old man with stooped shoulders, eyes glistening.

  “Take him down, champ!” cried another, from the back of the mob.

  Then a familiar figure stepped in front of the rest. “How you doing, lefty?” said Mike Wilson. They clasped hands.

  “How’s Sara and the baby?”

  Mike sidestepped the question. “It sure gives the guys a lift,” he said. “You getting back into it, I mean.”

  Jim, unsure how to deal with praise, shrugged it off.

  “I put two bucks on you, Jimmy,” Mike continued. “Don’t let me down, now.”

  Jim’s expression darkened. “Mike, Lewis is favored five to one.”

  But Mike just smiled, demonstrating more confidence than Jim felt. “How else am I gonna get rich?” he asked, spreading his arms. “You know, maybe I could come along. Do you need some help in your corner?”

  Jim shook his head, trying hard not to chuckle at the outlandish request. “I’ve already got my regular seconds,” he replied, face somber. “You know how it is, huh Mike?”

  Mike’s shoulders slumped, but he laughed off his obvious disappointment. “Yeah, sure, Jim. I understand. Go get ’em, champ.”

  With a final wave to his neighbors, and a glance at the basement window where his wife stood watching, Braddock climbed into Joe Gould’s car waiting at the curb. As they drove down the street, Mae Braddock at her window and Mike Wilson out on the sidewalk, both watched him go.

  A punishing left jab snapped Braddock’s head back. The arena had undergone some sort of earthquake, Jim decided, as he staggered, struggling to regain his balance. Braddock found himself against the ropes, looking up but seeing stars instead of the Garden’s klieg lights. That powerful wallop was followed by another and another. Jim managed to recover, darting around his opponent to get clear of the ropes.

  But John Henry Lewis wasn’t about to let this big fish escape. The fast, lethal black boxer displayed a style well ahead of his time, and Lewis ripped into the Irishman with a series of perfectly timed combinations, once again pinning Braddock to the ropes with a flurry of blows.

  At ringside, Ford Bond delivered blow-by-blow commentary to radio listeners. “Lewis, the uncrowned heavyweight champ, having beaten Rosenbloom twice in non-title fights, is here to repeat his ’Frisco performance and defeat Jim Braddock…”

  Over the roaring crowd, Braddock couldn’t hear Bond’s words. Instead, the voice of Joe Gould boomed like cannon shot in his ears. “You’re just fodder, Jimmy…Fodder.”

  As the black phantom closed to finish him, Jim ducked and weaved and slipped away from his opponent, dancing from the ropes to the center of the ring. Like a tidal wave Lewis surged after him, throwing and jabbing with arms as long as a soup line. His speed was dazzling, his force impossible to resist, yet Jim Braddock was demonstrating surprisingly quick footwork of his own, and once he escaped the ropes he mounted a remarkable defense.

  Suddenly, Braddock spied an opening in the whirlwind and took it. He smashed a hard left into Lewis’s head, followed by a pair of punches too fast for the other man to deflect. This time it was Lewis who danced away from his furious opponent, a look of shock on a face swollen with knots and gleaming with sweat.

  But Lewis quickly shook off the blows along with his surprise. He locked eyes with Jim Braddock—who actually threw him, of all things, a smile. With an irritated grunt, Lewis closed on his opponent and they clashed in the center ring, the level of ferocity increasing with each jab, each swing, each punch.

  For three rounds, the crowd had remained unimpressed while the two fighters danced and sparred and took the measure of each other, each trying to outbox or outfox the other man in what seemed was turning out to be a fairly timid display. But suddenly, in this ferocious fourth round—Jim Braddock’s confident smirks no doubt goading Lewis on—the rule had finally been
set, both fighters determined to yield no ground.

  The furious exchange ended in an exhausted clinch that the bell broke before the referee had the opportunity. The fighters moved to their corners without a backward glance. Jim slumped onto his stool and Joe Gould hopped over the ropes. He checked Jim’s face, then rubbed some life into his heavy, tired arms. While he worked the muscles, Gould glanced into the opposite corner, where he saw stunned confusion in John Henry Lewis’s expression, and consternation on the face of his coach.

  “Come on,” the man screamed. “What are you doing? You beat this guy easy last time.”

  But Lewis just shook his head. Above the noise of the near capacity crowd, Gould could just make out the boxer’s muttered reply. “He…he ain’t the same guy…”

  Behind them, Gould spotted Lewis’s manager, gambler and racketeer Gus Greenlee, a big shot in the Negro Baseball League and owner of the Pittsburgh team. Under his fedora, the man chewed nervously on his big Cuban cigar, puffing like a chimney. Joe Gould cracked a smile and offered it to the opposing corner. Greenlee sneered back.

  “Faster than I remember, even,” moaned Jim Braddock. Gould looked up to find that Lewis wasn’t the only fighter taken by surprise this round. Jim’s chest was heaving, and sweat was pouring off him in a stinging, salty torrent.

  Joe nodded, still working Braddock’s arms. “Yeah, he’s fast. But only in one direction…”

  Jim traded a look with his manager, who stood and leaned into his ear. “He’s always moving to the right,” rasped Gould. “Cut down the ring. You gotta unload. You hit him, he’s not going to like it. The more you hit him, the slower he’s going to get.”

  Jim nodded, eyes flinty. Going into this bout, Braddock had known Lewis wasn’t going to be a pushover. The son of an athletic coach for the University of Arizona, John Henry Lewis had been boxing since childhood, where he’d knocked down older kids during “midget” boxing competitions in his father’s gym. Lewis turned pro at fourteen by defeating Buster Grant in a four-round decision. In his fifteenth professional match, Lewis defeated Sam Terrain in a fourth-round knockout beating that proved fatal when Terrain died days later from injuries sustained during the fight.