“This is Ford Bond, live from the flats of Astoria and Long Island City,” he screamed into his microphone. “I don’t know if you can hear me out there. I can’t hear myself. Madison Square Garden is on its feet and the noise is deafening!”
Braddock, still stunned by the response, was suddenly flanked by dozens of photographers, vultures circling carrion. Bulbs flashed, incomprehensible questions were shouted, adding to the general chaos around him.
Ford Bond clutched his microphone like an umbrella handle in a hailstorm, shouting into it at the top of his lungs. “We saw people lining up to buy tickets tonight…People who looked as if they were spending their last dollar. But they’re here now, and thirty-five thousand strong. Listen to them!”
The announcer held up the microphone to capture the noise of the caterwauling mob. Jim Braddock climbed over the ropes, scanned the audience. As soon as his feet touched the canvas, the noise intensified, buffeting him like a gale-force wind.
Behind the back row, Max Baer emerged from the same doorway that Braddock had passed through. Ignored, he listened to the approving crowd, jealousy darkening his handsome features. His eyes fixed on Braddock inside the ring, basking in the applause. Baer’s manager, Ancil Hoffman, and two corner men appeared at Baer’s side. The boxer tapped Ernie Goins, one of his two corner men, with his glove, and then moved down the aisle, flanked by his entourage.
As the audience became aware of Baer’s presence, a wave of respectful silence rolled down the stadium bleachers in a muted waterfall that matched his feral strut. Max felt the public’s dread and savored it like fine wine. By the time he climbed into the ring, his chiseled features were a smirking mask, his every move, every gesture an arrogant challenge.
With both fighters inside the ring, the managers and corner men behind the ropes, photographers and members of the sporting press hurried to their ringside table. Typewriters were already clacking as Sporty Lewis, in his wrinkled seersucker suit, squeezed between the bodies of his packed-in colleagues and sank into his chair. He tossed his sweat-stained hat onto the typewriter in front of him, nodded to the cub reporter assigned to the seat beside his.
“All ready, kid?” Lewis yelled over the noise.
“Yeah, but for what?” the young reporter replied.
Sporty winked. “You never been to a funeral?”
Max Baer trotted around the ring like a stallion, accepting the boos, insults, and catcalls tossed his way as if they were an ovation. Gould, who’d slipped unnoticed into Braddock’s corner, called Jim over. Alone in the center of the ring, Baer soon grew tired of his own antics and the crowd’s scorn and moved into his corner too.
A moment of tense drama followed as the men in both fighters’ camps awaited the arrival of the all-important third man. The ongoing dispute over the referee continued right up to the wire. Nothing had been resolved at Jimmy Johnston’s last-minute powwow that morning. Gould and Braddock still nixed Dempsey; and Hoffman and Baer rejected Arthur Donovan. Adding to the mess was General Phelan, chairman of the boxing commission, who insisted that the referee be licensed in New York State. At the moment, as the fight was about to begin, neither Baer nor Braddock knew who the referee would be.
A gray-haired man built like a fireplug appeared at the ropes and climbed into the ring.
“That’s Johnny McAvoy, from Brooklyn,” Gould informed Braddock, relief evident in his voice.
“Yeah, I recognize him,” said Doc Robb, Braddock’s cutman. Ray, Braddock’s other corner man, agreed. “Me too.”
Gould’s cherubic face beamed. “Lucky break for us. We’ll get a square deal from Johnny. He’s on the up-and-up. A real straight shooter. I tell ya’ Jimmy, with McAvoy as ref, and Kelly and Lynch for judges, it’s a great night for the Irish.”
Baer’s corner seemed complacent with the choice. Ancil shrugged, Ernie Goins nodded his approval. Baer didn’t know McAvoy from Adam, but he wasn’t Arthur Donovan, so Max was fine with the commission’s selection.
The referee spoke with the boxing officials for a few moments. Then, leaning over the ropes, he addressed Charley Lynch and George Kelly, the title fight judges. Finally McAvoy adjusted his bow tie and moved to the center of the ring. Hands on hips, he summoned the boxers and their corner men.
“I want a clean fight,” McAvoy said in a whiskey voice. “When I say break, I want you to step back, ’cause I won’t say it twice. And remember”—McAvoy’s eyes caught Braddock’s—“protect yourself at all times.”
McAvoy stepped away from the huddle. “Shake.”
Braddock and Baer touched gloves. Max flashed white, straight, movie-star teeth. Braddock’s expression stayed neutral. Before they broke and returned to their respective corners, Ernie dangled a gold watch in front of Jim’s face.
“One minute to midnight, Cinderella!”
Gould lunged at the man, caught himself, then waved the punk back to his own corner. “You ain’t worth it, ya little turd,” he muttered, climbing out of the ring.
Braddock stripped off his robe to reveal a scrapper’s body, lean and sculpted with a rock-hard chest and thighs clad in blue trunks with a green shamrock emblazoned on the right leg. On the other side, the Californian was down to his black trunks, his powerful, bronzed muscles rippling under the glare of the stadium’s man-made daylight.
Ancil spoke intensely to Baer, who kept waving his manager off with a grimace of annoyed impatience that said he’d heard it all before and was sick of it already. Jim leaned into the ropes, closed his eyes. He seemed relaxed, calm, almost as if he were praying.
“Keep your hands up, Jimmy,” said Gould.
Jim nodded.
At ringside, Ford Bond was nearly whispering into his microphone. “Jim Braddock’s rise from the soup lines to number-one heavyweight contender has truly been miraculous. Now, never in all my years, have I seen the arena so quiet.”
Then the clang of the bell crashed through the silence to mark the start of the fight.
ROUND 1
Braddock leaped out of his corner, lean and determined, a lunging predator. Before Baer even made it to the center of the ring, Jim was on him, a light tap with his left followed by a stiff right to Baer’s body.
Braddock’s tactic—to catch the champ completely by surprise with an aggressive, well-directed attack—was the same one Baer himself had used in his first round with the German Max Schmeling in the title fight back in 1933. Braddock knew this because he’d watched the film. Yet Baer seemed unprepared for the assault, and shaken by Braddock’s unexpected intensity.
The Cinderella Man’s no-fear ferocity lifted the audience out of their seats.
But Baer recovered quickly and came back at Braddock with a short uppercut that missed Jim’s chin by less than an inch. Braddock stepped away, circled Baer until he spied an opening in the champ’s defenses, then closed on him again.
This time Baer was ready, delivering a left hook that smashed Jim’s ribs and set his teeth grinding against the mouthpiece. Jimmy swallowed the punch and spit it back in the form of a twisting hook—right into Baer’s side.
Spun by the blow, Baer dropped his fists, leaving himself wide open for a combination. Braddock let him have a long, stinging right to the face. Baer grunted, sneered. Braddock let fly with another right, then a left, and a final terrific right that bounced off the champ’s iron jaw.
Max grunted, clinched with Braddock in a sweaty embrace. Baer blinked then grinned through the mouth guard. “Now, now,” he said, a parent chiding a naughty child. Before Braddock could reply, McAvoy barked, made them break. Braddock danced away, his footwork dazzling, and then he charged again.
Jim’s three early rights, all of them robust, had stunned Max Baer, as much by their authority and control as their power. For the first time, Baer realized that Braddock had the kick of a mule in his arm. But the champion refused to show any discomfort to the audience. He began to clown instead. As he easily blocked several jabs, using his powerful right to swat them aside, he laughed and p
ranced. But Jim relentlessly pressed his advance and they clinched again.
“Calm down, old man,” Baer said. “I’ll let the fight go a few rounds.”
The ref pushed them apart. As he stepped back, Baer hooked a sneaky left to Braddock’s body. Though it was too weak and too low to hurt Jim’s vulnerable ribs, the punch was followed by a right that sent Braddock’s teeth rattling. Jim ignored the splinters of light, sent two soft lefts—return postcards—to Baer’s cranium. Then Braddock walloped his opponent with a third left, this one with real muscle behind it.
Baer didn’t appear to feel the punch, though he came up short with a counter tossed at Braddock’s head. As Madcap Maxie danced away, the bell clanged to end the round.
The champ had clearly lost the round on points, yet he strolled casually to his corner with an air of smug superiority, still confident that he could end this fight at any time with one deadly punch.
Meanwhile, the crowd’s raucous cheers rang heaven’s doorbell. Even the members of the first estate, who figured to a man that the fight would be over by now, were stunned by Braddock’s driving performance. Sporty Lewis outwardly speculated how many minutes into the second round Braddock would remain alive, but he removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie while he talked, secretly realizing, after a look at Braddock’s focused control, that he was in for a long night in the summer heat.
At the ropes, Gould met Jim with a ready grin. “Did you see that look on Baer’s face when ya clocked ’im?” the little manager cried.
Braddock spit out his mouthpiece, nodded. “Yeah. He was grinning.”
“So use that magic left of yours to wipe that smirk off his goddamn face.”
Jim glanced across the canvas expanse, to see Ancil giving it to Baer. Once again, Baer waved his manager away, spoke words broad enough to lip read: “I’ll kill him when I’m ready.”
Doc Robb checked Braddock’s face. Like any good cutman, he was prepared to stem any blood flow before it limited Braddock’s vision. Ray slipped Jim a towel, passed him some water. Finally, Gould leaned in.
Decades of experience had taught Joe the difference between a good corner man and a lousy one. The lousy one crammed the boxer’s head full of stuff he’d never remember. The good one gave his fighter one usable tactic between each round—just one decent tip his guy could use to maybe turn the fight around.
“Your left, Jimmy,” Gould barked into Braddock’s cauliflower ear. “Remember your left.”
The bell rang—
ROUND 2
The audience couldn’t believe their eyes when Braddock came out swinging at the sound of the bell. Reporting from ringside, even Ford Bond seemed perplexed by this unforeseen turn of events.
“A fight that no one expected to go one round has gone two,” cried Bond. “But only because Max Baer is toying with Braddock—there is no other word for it. He’s hardly thrown a punch and is laughing at Braddock’s every strike.”
Jim delivered a long left to the champ’s smirking face, but missed with his follow-up and Baer snickered. They traded lefts, then Baer ripped a hard right to Braddock’s body. Jimmy replied with three straight rights, bashing the sneer off Maxie’s mug.
Eyes flashing with fury, Baer rushed Braddock—his first charge of the match—but Braddock stopped him abruptly with an uppercut at close quarters that snapped Baer’s head back. He roared, coming back with a combination, but the assault was ill-timed and glanced off Braddock’s head without doing damage. Jim doubled down, presenting Baer with two straight lefts to the head, two crushing rights to his jaw.
“Look at Braddock take those belts and come back!” Ford Bond cried. “Where did he get that left he’s feeding Baer?”
Max stepped back, bought time by grooming himself. He wiped his gloves on the back of his trunks after landing a punch as if he didn’t want Braddock’s sweat or blood to soil the leather. While Baer preened, Jim stalked, then landed a stiff, whip-fast jab that put a moment’s wobble in Baer’s muscular legs.
Jim tried to press his advantage, but Baer rushed him, distracting his opponent with a wildly swinging left while smashing his lethal right into Jim’s bum ribs. Braddock reeled, the power of Max’s blow flattening his lungs.
Gasping for air, Braddock struggled to counter with a flurry of punches that ended when they fell into a clinch.
“The champ has clearly hurt the challenger,” said Ford Bond. “Braddock is wobbling, appears ready to drop…”
The crowd roared their disapproval.
Inside the hug, Baer managed a bull’s-eye to the ribs again. Braddock’s mouth gaped like a beached fish.
“That the right spot, old man?”
Jim knew every boxer’s hits were different. Some fired in hard, penetrating bullets that dug into your muscles, others threw haymakers that broke like boulders against your head. Max Baer’s punch felt like a leather-covered sledgehammer, like the gore-covered mallet he’d used to bash the skulls of cattle in his father’s slaughterhouse.
The bell sounded. McAvoy separated the fighters. Baer gave Braddock a patronizing pat on the back as they moved to their corners.
Braddock collapsed onto his stool. Gould pulled on the waistband of the blue trunks to help Jim breathe. Doc Robb treated his cuts. Ray poured water into his mouth, but Jim gagged and coughed it up.
“Air,” he gasped.
Jim’s crew hovered over him until the warning buzzer sounded. Gould examined his ribs. “They ain’t busted. Not yet.”
Across the ring, Baer was mugging for the reporters, acting like he was on crutches. His thumb jerked in Braddock’s direction. Sporty Lewis and the other ringside sportswriters guffawed.
“What’s with the clowning around?” Ray asked Joe.
“Ah, he just wants to put on a good show for the rubes,” Gould replied. “All Hollywood, that Maxie.”
Jim took in the dancing bear act, knew he himself had thought like that once, back when he only worried about giving the crowd a good thrill, handing them the big knockout they were salivating to see. He’d risk a victory on points just to get a dramatic finish—just to hear those cheers, win the approval of the promoters, get that next headliner’s spot.
Watching Baer’s antics, Braddock realized that pleasing the crowd didn’t matter to him anymore. Jim wasn’t boxing to thrill reporters, please promoters, or wow the crowd. He was boxing for his family’s future. He wasn’t even fighting Baer. He was fighting to beat back the thing that had beaten him.
Suddenly, the bell sounded. One minute was up. Three minutes to go.
ROUND 3
Despite his battered condition, Braddock burst out of his corner, leather flying, for the third time. He pummeled Baer’s head while the champ battered Braddock’s torso.
“That’s the way, Jimmy, get him good.” Gould was at the ropes, punching the air, yelling himself hoarse. It was all he could do to help his fighter now, so Joe kept up the raspy tirade.
Jim delivered two lefts to Baer’s face, then a left and right combination to the skull. Baer drove his own left into Braddock’s midsection, the glove sunk muscle deep. Gould winced, knowing that if Baer’d had a real left, Braddock might have tumbled. But Maxie was no all-around fighter—he was a heavy hitter with a bone-crunching right and a left that was weak as hospital coffee. As Gould expected, Braddock shrugged it off.
Dancing backward, Braddock flecked Baer’s face with double long-lefts, but Jim’s fatal right arrived too high to connect and Gould cursed.
“Lower the swing, Jim,” cried Gould.
Meanwhile, Baer stepped around Braddock’s defense and continued to pound his battered midsection with both hands. Soft leather slapped against hard muscle, and Gould winced when he saw it. Some of Baer’s stomach smashes were too close to the danger zone, and Joe angrily called for Baer to keep his punches up.
Jim tried to counter with a combination, but Baer easily blocked. Then Braddock stung him with a right to the jaw, the sound reaching Gould’s ears over th
e din of the crowd. Baer snarled like a beast, eyes wild, nostrils flaring.
“Protect yourself, Jimmy!” Gould warned—too late. Baer slammed Braddock’s body with another stiff right. The punch was visibly low and the referee moved in, warning Baer to keep his fists up.
Gould panicked when he saw Braddock dropping his guard. Baer saw it too. Max had smelled Jim’s blood and now he wanted to taste it. Before Gould could warn his fighter what was coming, it came.
Baer slammed Jim’s temple with a vicious left. Braddock’s knees wobbled and Gould froze in dread. Baer skipped across the canvas, making faces and aping Jim’s obvious agony.
Joe considered throwing in the towel just then. He turned toward Ray, but the corner man yanked the cloth out of reach.
“Give ’em a chance, Joe,” Ray said.
“Easy for you,” Gould replied. “You don’t have to face Mrs. Braddock.”
A few seconds later, Jim was straightening without reaching for the ropes, and Gould breathed easier.
A bemused Baer rubbed his gloves on his trunks, flicked his nose and charged. This time it was Braddock who scored—a long right, then a left jab that made Max’s backward-lurching head look like a punching bag.
“That’s right, that’s the way!” yelled Gould bouncing up and down as Ray snapped his towel in the air.
When the bell rang, the audience leaped to their feet.
ROUND 4
The opening bell’s clang had barely faded before Baer and Braddock were both out of their corners, standing toe to toe, trading left jabs to the head. Baer’s were an exercise in futility. He’d throw and throw and throw again, but Jim’s half steps made Maxie miss by inches. Braddock’s footwork was never better, and most of his own blows hit home.
In desperation Baer shifted his attack, going for the torso. After several heavy smashes, he was gratified to see a red bruise appear on Braddock’s left ribs. As Jim sucked air, Baer was certain every breath produced lancing agony for his opponent.
To buy time, Braddock drove a volley of sharp left jabs to Baer’s head, but the champ wasn’t going to let that continue. He draped his heavy arms over Braddock in a clinch. This time Baer didn’t wisecrack; he needed the wind just to remain standing.
Cinderella Man Page 20
