Cinderella Man

by Marc Cerasini

  “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.

  “His ribs are mushy,” said the trainer. “I got it on good authority. If you can connect with his right, tap Braddock on the ribs a few times—sharp jabs. He’s weak, you can hurt ’em.”

  Baer sneered. “I won’t need to smack his ribs. I can floor this mug any time I want to—put him on the canvas. What’s important is that I give ’em a good show before I kill the guy.”

  The trainer frowned, turned off the projector. Maxie’s redhead rose and switched on the lights. On a long couch in a corner, the blond yawned, stretched like a lazy cat.

  Baer’s dressing room was all show business—makeup lights circled the mirror, photos of Baer with various celebrities and movie stars hung on the walls, stood in silver frames on countertops. Mammoth bouquets of bright flowers were strewn about, sent long distance by the cream of the Hollywood establishment. Actors, producers, and directors all loved Maxie, adopted the heavyweight champion as a member of their exclusive “club”—mostly because his arrogant, self-aggrandizing manner mimicked their own.

  A knock. The door opened and Ancil Hoffman burst into the room. Baer stood, faced him. “You get it there like I told you?”

  “Yeah,” said Ancil.

  “You sure!” Baer roared.

  “The ambulance is at the back gate, Max,” Ancil cried. “Jeez, calm down. There’s a doc there, too. I just checked it myself.”

  Max cursed, shook his head. He turned to peer into the mirror.

  “That’s all I can do for him, then,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now Braddock’s on his own.”

  Mae Braddock spent the rest of the day at her sister Alice’s house. Jay and Howard played in the yard, Rosy drew pictures on the sunny front porch. Alice and Mae drank coffee, shared lunch, and spoke of many things. Both women carefully shied away from any discussion about the real reason for Mae’s visit.

  But as the shadows lengthened, the conversation lagged. Mae’s silence grew longer. She glanced more often at the Art Deco clock on the mantel, as the afternoon waned. When Alice offered her a glass of her favorite wine, Mae declined. Distractedly, she gazed out the window until Alice gave up trying to engage her.

  Then, at five o’clock, Mae rose abruptly, pinned on her hat. Wordlessly, she crossed to the front door, where she paused.

  “No radio, Alice.”

  Mae’s sister frowned, nodded.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  As Mae strode across the lawn, Howard and Jay watched her go, and Rosy looked up from her pencils.

  She walked alone for a long time through the deserted streets of Newark. The shadows stretched until they darkened the streets. All was quiet until she came to Father Rorick’s church.

  Though no regular service was scheduled for this hour, people were streaming through the open doors. Inside, the lights were bright. Mae wondered as she crossed the courtyard if a funeral or even a wedding was in progress. Then Mae spied Father Rorick at the door and approached him.

  “Father?” she asked, puzzled. Peering around him, Mae saw that the church was full to brimming, with people lining up in the aisles as well.

  “Hello, Mae,” said Father Rorick.

  “I came to pray for Jim.”

  “You too?” said the priest. He stepped back, directing her gaze to the church’s interior. “So have they.”

  Mae blinked, surveyed the full pews, the people in worn clothes praying on their knees in the aisle, and shook her head.

  “I don’t—” Her voice faded as realization dawned.

  “Maybe sometimes people need to see someone do it so they can do it themselves,” said Father Rorick. “They think Jim’s fighting for them.”

  Mae looked over the crowd again. She saw men from the docks, vagrants from the street, women and children who’d been abandoned—all of them thrown aside by the world, challenged to summon enough fight inside themselves to keep going. They looked up to her husband, Mae realized, all of them. Jim Braddock had become their example…if he could fight and win, maybe they could too…

  “Yes,” Mae whispered. “I understand now.”

  Mae turned, hurried into the street. As her heels clicked down the sidewalk, she noticed knots of men and women gathering in doorways, outside of shops. Through open windows and doors radios blared. They were all tuned to the same station—the announcer excitedly teasin
g the title fight about to begin.

  The same thing was happening at Quincy’s bar, in Sam’s butcher shop, at the docks, the rail yards, the coal shuttles—even the Newark relief office. Anywhere there was a radio, a crowd of hungry, eager people crowded around to listen.

  It wasn’t only happening in Newark, either. The fight of the century and the fate of the Cinderella Man had become the fodder for national news. From coast to coast, from the Mexican border to Canada—all across the nation, from rusty factory towns to the hot, barren farms of the Dust Bowl, idle fisheries to ramshackle shantytowns—men without jobs, women without hope, tuned in to hear the boxer Damon Runyon dubbed the Cinderella Man fight. They listened and hoped that Jim Braddock would beat the odds that had all but crushed the rest of them.

  They prayed that Jim Braddock would win. That he would finally become the prince, the king, the champion—and that this fight would not end their beloved Cinderella Man.

  The crowd roared, a palpable wall of noise that shook the walls, wafted upward, into the warm night sky.

  In his dressing room, Braddock felt the tension. He sat patiently on a wooden bench while Joe Gould taped up his hands. The echoes from the vast stadium rumbled in their chests like the growl of a hungry lion. Joe ripped the tape, tossed the roll onto the bench, slapped his fighter’s broad back.

  “Who beat John Henry Lewis?”

  Jim smiled. Their old game. “That would be me.”

  “Who whupped Lasky?”

  “As far as I can tell, that would have been me too.”

  Joe grinned. “Who—”

  A knock interrupted him. Braddock’s back was facing the door, but Gould looked up. When it opened, a small, frail, familiar shape swayed like a slender reed in the doorway. Gould’s grin widened. Jim noticed his manager’s look, swiveled his neck. Mae Braddock’s eyes met her husband’s.

  “I tell you,” Gould said. “That’s a bet I shoulda taken.”

  “Joe…” Gould looked up. Jim put his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  Gould rose. “’Scuse me a minute.” He slipped past Mae, out the door, closed it behind him.

  For a long minute, no words came. Finally, Mae spoke. “You can’t win without me behind you.”

  Jim swallowed, spoke. “That’s what I keep telling you.”

  “Thought it looked like rain, you know. Used what was in the jar.” Mae handed Jim a brown paper bag, bulky and heavy. The paper crinkled as he opened it, stared at a brand new pair of boxing shoes inside.

  “Maybe I understand some,” Mae said, eyes shining. “About having to fight.”

  Jim rose, caught her up in his powerful arms. They kissed and kissed again. Mae’s words flowed in a torrent. “I don’t know what I was saying, I’m always behind you Jimmy, with you and inside you and in love with you. So you just…just you remember who you really are.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You’re the Bulldog of Bergen,” she said, smiling through her tears. “The pride of New Jersey. You’re everybody’s hope and your kids’ hero and you’re the champion of my heart, James J. Braddock.”

  They kissed again. Then, with a devilish grin, Jim leaned close to his wife’s ear. “You better get home. Boxers hang around places like this, and you don’t wanna get tangled up with that crowd…Nice girl like you…”

  Mae laughed. Her gaze was brave, stoic, despite the fear that still threatened to engulf her.

  “See you at home, okay?” she whispered, fighting hard to bite back more tears. “Please, Jimmy…See you at home.”

  Jim nodded. “See you at home.”

  ROUND FOURTEEN

  …Letters came to Braddock from all over the world…. most of them were from those whom life had treated shabbily…from those who had been left alone in the world and who were plodding in a weary way, hopeless until this big guy had come swinging back from obscurity to show them how a losing fight could be won.

  —John D. McCallum,

  Encyclopedia of World Boxing Champions

  Madison Square Garden Bowl

  Long Island City, New York

  June 13, 1935

  Jim Braddock closed the dressing-room door, moved through a long, dimly lit corridor to the shadowy stairwell. Someone called his name, the voice reverberating off the slate gray blocks of the concrete walls. A stagehand wished Jim luck, watched his back as Braddock climbed the steps.

  Ushers and concession workers gaped at the sight of Jim. He nodded politely, then stepped out into the aisle of the open-air stadium. For a moment, he saw the bruised color of the blue-black night, then a blasting glare blinded him as a spotlight swung to illuminate his walk to the ring.

  Around him, the typical buzzing noises of the packed stands instantly became muted, the crowd’s hushed whispers a sibilant hiss. Jim couldn’t see the throng, but he was bewildered by their strange silence.

  Slowly, Jim’s vision returned, allowing the shape and form of the Garden Bowl to come into focus. From where he stood, at the top of the dark stadium, the ring seemed miles away, an illuminated postage stamp. The small roped-off square shimmered under the klieg lights like a dazzling diamond set on black velvet in a jeweler’s glass case.

  Where Jim stood now was as far away from that sparkler as a man could get. These were the cheap seats, paupers’ row, hayseed heaven—and they were packed. Beneath the night sky, bodies jammed every row, every seat. But these weren’t the usual fight-going folk. They were Jim’s people, his forlorn fans. They came from Newark, Hoboken, and Weehawken; Woodside, Red Hook, and Crown Heights, wearing their very best shabby finery, heads held high for the first time in recent memory. There were so many of them here, Jim realized, so many. They sat quietly, reverently, like hollow-eyed ghosts, silent, expectant.

  “God Almighty.”

  Jim knew their expressions—from the streets and docks, the coal house and rail yards. Men hurting for jobs, seeing no chance of a future. Women robbed of once happy homes. Some looked as if they could stand a good meal, or a stiff drink. Others seemed to have drifted over the East River from Hooverville in rags and tatters. Yet they were here tonight, using precious money they’d begged or earned—cash they should have spent on food or the rent—to buy a little piece of the Cinderella Man’s shimmering gem of a dream and take it home.

  He’d never seen these people before, yet Jim knew them—from the streets, the basements, the junkyards, from Sam’s butcher shop, Andolini’s grocery, Quincy’s tavern, or a million other places like it, in a thousand other towns. Places where the beaten down congregated in a mutual pact of shared disillusionment. But there was no disappointment tonight. Instead, Jim saw awe, joy, anticipation. Their eyes followed him with wide, hopeful expressions. For the first time in years, they were transfixed by a belief in something bigger than themselves, a conviction that a fight could be won. Jim Braddock was a fairy-tale comeback that would end tonight in this place, happily or not. And they’d come here to be a part of it.

  As Jim moved down the aisle, he began one of the strangest walks any boxer had ever taken to the ring. As he passed each row, the people rose to their feet, as if the bleachers were church pews and they were at Mass, standing out of respect for the celebrants’ procession. Jim caught the nods, the smiles, the waves. Some reached out to touch his robe, his arm, his hair. After what seemed like an eternity, the eerie silence was broken when someone shouted his name.

  Jim Braddock had spent so many years being called a bum, being jeered at, booed, discounted and written off, he didn’t know what to do, really, when at the sound of his name, the pent-up emotions were released in a stadium-quaking explosion of applause.

  As he approached the ropes, the cheers persisted, rising into the starry sky. That sound continued its journey across America, carried over the airwaves to radios across the nation, so loud the clamor merged into a sustained barrage of white noise. The voice of the announcer vainly tried to cut through the cacophony, but was forced to pause and wait for the shouts and app
lause to fade.

  Back in New Jersey, Alice had been fixing a light supper for her sister’s children. The soup was hot, the table set, so she went to the porch to find Jay, Howard, and Rosy and bring them inside.

  She noticed immediately that Rose Marie was gone. Her pencils were lined up in a neat row on the porch step; the drawing she’d worked on most of the day was now being blown around the yard like a fallen leaf. There was no sign of Howard or Jay either, yet they’d been playing pink ball in the now darkening streets when she had gone inside to cook.

  Alice tamped down her worry and went back inside, searched every room of the house, but the Braddock brood were nowhere to be found. She raced down the stairs to check the basement, loudly calling their names.

  “If you’re playing hide-and-seek, I want you to know that the game’s over now,” she cried.

  No answer. Heart racing, Alice ran up two flight of stairs to check the bedrooms. Then she checked under the beds. Still no sign of her niece and nephews.

  Alice was about to go outside and scour the neighborhood when she heard a muted roar—cheers and applause. The sound was coming from the back hallway. Then she spied the electrical cord running from the socket to the closet, and the empty table where her Edison radio usually rested.

  She pulled open the door. Jay and Howard were huddled around the radio, which they’d dragged into the closet. Rosy was there, too, her eyes defiant. Ford Bond’s familiar voice boomed out of the wooden box. Alice, hands on hips, wore a disapproving face. The boys’ eyes were desperate.

  No words were exchanged. At the sound of a bell, Ford Bond’s distinctive voice announced the entrance of Jim Braddock. Realizing then that her cause was lost, Alice surrendered. Making room on the floor, she sat outside the open closet door and listened to the play-by-play along with the children.