Lila say, “We’ve brought Otis’s radio to add to yours. On a night like this, two radios are better than one.”
Uh-huh. I got excitement in every bone of my whole body.
Lila lifts the Philco from Otis, plugs it in at an opposite corner to where Hibernia’s radio is set. The whole room fills up with the sound.
Mama and me are holding hands. “Mama,” I say, “this is it! Joe’s big fight. For the heavyweight championship of the world!”
HiBERNiA
MY FINGERNAILS DON’T STAND A CHANCE. I’ve bitten all but one, my left pinkie, down to the skin. I am saving that final sliver of white for tonight’s fight.
Daddy has moved Speaky from his private room to our kitchen table. Otis and Willie are here with Lila Weiss and Daddy and me. They’ve even brought Willie’s mama, a cat, a pan of corn hash, a jug of lemonade, and a radio of their own.
I remember Daddy telling me about the kids at Mercy. Some being true orphans. Others living there because of parents who couldn’t take care of them, or from hard times at home. I don’t ask Willie about his mother. I notice her skirt, though. It’s gathered at the waist with a ribbon sash that glints when she moves. I’ve never seen fabric gleam that way. Up close, it looks like regular cotton. But whenever she turns, even a little, that sash shines like lamé. All of me says, I want one of those.
Daddy goes to the larder to get six drinking glasses and some plates, then sets them in front of us on the table. “Sister Weiss,” he says, “welcome to you and your friends.”
Willie and his mama serve us their corn hash, then slide on the kitchen bench next to me.
Otis gets to the bench from the other side. He says my whole name slowly, like he’s enjoying a caramel. “Hibernia Lee Tyson.”
I like hearing how he says my name. It sounds smooth, like an introduction to a singer at the Savoy.
Quietly I say, “That wrapper chain you made me is sure pretty.”
He says, “It looks good on you.”
I giggle. “I do look good in jewelry, don’t I.”
I reach for Lila’s lemonade and pour everybody a glass, Otis first. I drink mine down quick.
The cat plunks his paw into my empty glass and licks the lemony drink from his white patch of fur.
“Don’t go showing off,” says Otis. He sets the cat between me and him on the bench. “Bird,” he introduces, “this is Hibernia Lee Tyson.”
Otis waves the cat’s lemonade paw like it wants to shake my hand. I take the cat’s wet mitt in two of my fingers. “Pleased to meet you, cat.”
“Bird,” Otis corrects me.
Then we hear it—sudden cheering from the spectators at ringside, and Skip Gibson’s quicksilver introduction to the fight. I’m so glad to hear Skip’s voice. It’s a greeting from a friend.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Skip Gibson coming to you live from Comiskey Park in Chicago, where I am looking out at forty-five thousand fight fans waiting to see who will be the next heavyweight champion of the world.”
All of us scoot toward Speaky. We might as well be a bunch of hairpins, pulled fast by a magnet—the radio. Otis’s Philco adds extra boom to the commentary. With so much radio surrounding us, it’s as loud as being ringside.
Even Bird’s got his ears pricked, and he’s up on all fours. I close my eyes to listen. I make what Skip says come into my mind like a moving picture.
“Champion Braddock is wearing the trunks with the white stripes. Joe Louis is wearing the all-dark trunks.”
With my eyes shut tight, I say, “All-dark trunks! What kind of star appeal is that? Joe, don’t you know? A white stripe adds star appeal under bright lights. Braddock is already ahead with the right shorts.”
Before I can give Joe any more ideas about his boxing trunks, I am hushed up quick. Daddy and Lila, Otis, Willie, and his mama all pounce on my advice with a firm “Shhhhh!”
“But if only Joe just had a little stripe of his own—” I start to defend the importance of trunks with some flash.
Another chorus rings out against me. “Shhhhhhhhh!”
I suck my tongue. “You people don’t know a thing about show business.”
Nobody bothers to hush me again.
Daddy gets up and starts walking the length of our small kitchen. Even with the radio’s magnetic power, he can’t stay put. His feet make heavy clomps on the floorboards. He lifts the window sash even higher to let in more of the night’s breeze.
I start up with my pinkie nail, slowly coaxing it off with tiny little teeth snips.
“Louis looks strong from his corner, eager, like he’s ready. Like he’s been ready. Braddock, from his corner, is quietly confident. They enter the ring.”
Lila pours her second glass of lemonade.
Willie’s got Bird now and is hugging him close. The cat fights Willie’s hold. He wants to nose the radio. Otis knuckles Bird’s head softly. “Easy now,” he says.
Daddy fiddles with the radio’s tuning knob. He turns up the volume almost to its fullest.
I bite down hard on my nail. I start to tear it away from the skin. Otis gently draws my pinkie from my clamped teeth. I’m grateful for the favor. Anything to save my nails.
Out from the radio the start bell rings.
Something in me is ringing, too. It’s not a bell, though. The ding, ding, ding comes from a single place inside my chest.
It’s a signal that tells me I’m at a beginning.
WiLLiE
“BRADDOCK COMES OUT PUNCHING! HE’S trying to take Louis by surprise. He’s looking to land right-hand punches. Louis jabs and moves back. We’re only minutes into round one and Louis is showing signs of retreating. This isn’t like the Brown Bomber.”
We all eating Mama’s corn hash and, oh, is it ever good. Every part of me is tight. Fixed hard as the lid on a jar filled with firecrackers. I’m holding in so much. Ready to bust. My Saint Christopher medal is hot from me pressing on it. From aching for Joe to win. Saint Christopher, protect me from myself. Drive away the hurt I feel, just from thinking Joe could lose.
Call me a sissy. Say I’m a milksop. I’m wearing Saint Christopher like a necklace worth a fortune.
“Louis lands a right to the side of Braddock’s head. But the champ is back fast with a short uppercut to Joe’s jaw. Louis’s legs give way! He lands on the canvas! He’s down!”
“Joe, get up! Get up, Joe!” I holler at the radio. I press Saint Christopher to me. Maybe it can keep my stuttering heart from jumping to the floor.
Bird pounces at the radio. Otis scoops him back from the speaker holes. Otis, he’s hollering, loud as me. “Joe!”
“Louis recovers quickly. He’s back on his feet! But Braddock is at him, throwing right-handed haymakers! Louis lands a left hook and a right cross. Braddock looks hurt. And there’s the bell—the end of round one!”
My breath comes short and shaky. It’s a wonder I can breathe at all. I’m blowing through puffed cheeks.
Between rounds there’s an advertisement for Ivory Soap. I eat more corn hash and wash it back with some of the lemonade while we waiting for round two. “Careful,” Mama say. “If you eat too fast, you’ll get a stomachache.” I slow down, glad I got a ma here to badger me.
The start bell clangs.
“Braddock comes out of his corner hepped for action. He throws right hand after right hand. Braddock is a wild animal tonight. He won’t let up. And the Brown Bomber is not fighting at his best.”
My head’s in both my hands. I can’t even look at the radio. Uh-uh, can’t even watch what I’m hearing. My heart’s a brick. Uh-huh, I’m as sissy as they come. I bite the walls of my mouth to keep from being a crybaby.
Saint Christopher, help me. Help Joe.
None of us says nothing.
Lila’s hands is wrung together.
Hibernia grabs on to her daddy.
I ain’t letting go of Mama.
Me and Otis share a sad sideways glance.
Otis gives Bird to me.
Me and Mama hold him close. My cat’s trembling.
I shut my eyes and think heavy on something Mama once told me. Mama, she must be some kind of mind reader. She says what I’m thinking. She calls it out to the radio: “Joe, don’t give up five minutes before a miracle happens.”
I set Bird in my lap, so’s I can go back to my medal. But I’m more than rubbing on Saint Christopher now. I squeeze that tinny charm so hard, I’m near to crushing it. And uh-huh, I’m a crybaby milksop, ’cause all I can say to Saint Christopher is “Please!”
I can’t stay in my chair. Mama’s the first to notice me rocking. She takes Bird, and I’m up.
I claw-punch in front of me. Dancing back on my feet to the corner where Otis’s radio is parked. I hook, cross. Go strong for a jaw.
Jab. Cut. Duck. Call, “Joe! Joe! Joe!”
And five minutes pass. And here comes a miracle!
Round three: “Louis catches Braddock with a left that tears open the champ’s lip!”
Round four: “Braddock is bleeding bad!”
Round five: “A solid left by Joe Louis rips open another cut, this time on the left side of his rival’s forehead! The champ is slowing down. But the Brown Bomber is on the up-and-up!”
It’s as if a mighty hand is yanking the room to its feet. Everybody else jumps to stand.
“Yes!” shouts the reverend. But he’s fast to hush so’s we can hear the rest.
By round six, faith is here like a long-gone friend. It’s getting easier to pull breath. I’m still pushing air through rounded cheeks. But it’s from relief, not upset.
“Joe comes on strong against his foe. Braddock tries to keep the battle going, but he’s struggling.”
The reverend turns up the radio. Skip Gibson, he sounding like he trusts in Mama’s belief about miracles coming soon.
“As we wind down the seventh round, Joe’s rights don’t let up, and Jimmy Braddock starts to retreat. Louis powers a left hook. Braddock staggers! There’s the bell. Braddock is saved for the moment.”
We back to sitting. Otis say, “It’s not over till it’s over.”
That’s the hard truth of prizefighting. Nobody’s a winner till somebody’s a winner. At round eight, all of us got our ears pinned to the radio.
“There’s the bell. Braddock tries a right hand, but Louis is faster, stronger. He hits Braddock with his right hand. Now Louis has got his left at work. He pops Braddock with a left to the jaw, then hooks his left to Jimmy’s head. There’s another bruise now over the champ’s left eye! Braddock is reaching for anything he can to keep from falling. He throws a sloppy right! He misses! A dynamite right from Joe—a hard blow to Braddock’s chin—brings Braddock tumbling to the canvas! The champ falls forward on his face!”
Otis and me let out noises that are hoots and roars, all rolled into one.
The girls got their own ways of shouting good news. “Hot-doo!” Lila hollers.
“Double-hot-doo!” Hibernia yells.
“Hash-hot!” shouts Mama.
Skip Gibson tells America, “Joe Louis goes to a neutral corner. Referee Tommy Thomas is over Braddock. He starts to count. One… two… three…”
Mama and me count with Tommy Thomas. Otis and Hibernia count with Tommy and Mama and me. Lila and Hibernia’s daddy both got their heads down. They’s saying the numbers silently.
The world’s counting “… four… five…”
Nobody’s a winner till somebody’s a winner.
“Braddock is stunned,” says Skip. “He struggles to a sitting position. He’s trying to get up….”
OTiS
“SIX… SEVEN… EIGHT… BRADDOCK CAN’T rouse himself. He’s out cold from the Brown Bomber’s thunderous right punch!”
I’m wishing on Joe, talking to Daddy and Ma quietly in my mind.
Shake on a promise.
All of me is more jittery than a croaker from a pond springing to the finish line in a frog-jumping contest.
Before the count even gets to ten, I take Hibernia by both her hands, and we’re off that kitchen bench fast as jackrabbits. She’s doing a jig step, showing me how to be her partner.
“Joe Louis has scored a devastating knockout over Jimmy Braddock to win the heavyweight championship of the world!”
Hibernia’s daddy stomps his iron foot. “Hoooeeee!”
Outside, hollers fill up the night with folks in the street and on the rooftops calling, “Joe! Joe! Joe!”
Pots and pans rattle and clank, playing the music of victory.
Willie makes the chant his own. “My Joe! My Joe!” His fists punch at the place above his head.
We are all hugging and laughing and doing a ring-around-the-rosy dance. Bird is frisking at the center of our circle. And I swear that cat’s tiny lips are pressed into a kitty grin.
I look to see if I’m still stepping on the floor. Or are my feet riding on some kind of joy-wind?
I wrap my hand over Hibernia’s. “Let me hold that for you,” I say. Hibernia presses her hand in mine, gentle and firm at the same time.
I wish Daddy and Ma were here to dance and ride with me. I try to swallow back the hard spot at the base of my throat, but it’s stronger than I am.
Lila’s eyes are wet. So are Willie’s and his ma’s, and Hibernia’s, too. And the reverend, he’s wiping at his eyes with the back of his big hand.
Everything’s mixed up and blurry from happy crying that won’t quit. But I am clear on knowing one thing. There’s no more yesterday. There isn’t even tomorrow. All I have is now. Here. With Lila, Willie and his ma, Bird, Hibernia Lee Tyson, her daddy, and two radios.
And Joe Louis. The Brown Bomber. Giving us brightness and hope.
We settle at the table.
Hibernia pours the last of the lemonade.
Willie serves more of his ma’s hash.
I say a riddle.
“What makes you feel strong and weak at the same time?”
Lila says, “Love.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
© Associated Press
Joseph Louis Barrow (May 13, 1914–April 12, 1981) was a strong and beautiful symbol of hope. He was born the seventh of eight children to Alabama sharecroppers and grew up to become one of the most noted athletes of his day, the world heavyweight boxing champion from 1937 to 1949.
Hailed for his pounding punches and focused fighting, Louis was called the “Brown Bomber” for his smooth, dark complexion and his crushing right-and-left-hand combination blows. When Joe Louis defeated James J. Braddock on June 22, 1937, to become the heavyweight champion of the world, the event instilled overwhelming pride in the hearts of African Americans and served as an important moment in boxing history. On the night of this fight against Braddock, African Americans were so filled with excitement that many celebrated until dawn the next day.
In his autobiography entitled I Wonder as I Wander, Langston Hughes, the noted Harlem Renaissance poet and writer, describes Louis’s victory this way:
Each time Joe Louis won a fight in those depression years, even before he became champion, thousands of colored Americans on relief or W.P.A., and poor, would throng out into the streets all across the land to march and cheer and yell and cry because of Joe’s one-man triumphs. No one else in the United States has ever had such an effect on Negro emotions—or on mine. I marched and cheered and yelled and cried, too.
On June 22, 1938, the Brown Bomber returned to the ring with German fighter Max Schmeling to avenge his 1936 loss to him. The highly publicized fight represented so much more than a boxing match. As Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Germany carried out a campaign to create a master white Aryan race that excluded Jews, Gypsies, people with disabilities, and anyone else it did not like, Joe served as an example of America’s powerful democracy. (During a visit by Louis to the White House just before the Schmeling fight, President Franklin D. Roosevelt squeezed Joe’s arm and said, “We’re depending on those muscles for America.”)
In his second fight with Max Schmeling, Joe Louis k
nocked out Schmeling in the first round, further establishing himself as an American hero.
Joe Louis retired as heavyweight boxing champion in March 1949. He came out of retirement to defend his title against Ezzard Charles in New York City in September 1950 but lost the match.
The radio commentary throughout this novel is taken from recordings of actual broadcasts of Joe Louis fights. Skip Gibson and Rusty Donovan are fictional characters drawn from several boxing commentators of the time. The facts about Joe Louis and the fight details are true. They really happened as described by the radio commentary in this book. Additional factual information was obtained through extensive research of boxing and sports history and the use of primary source materials, including interviews with newspaper writers, boxing memorabilia, and historical research about the radio medium during the Great Depression.
The song “Let’s Go, Mighty Joe” is derived from an actual Joe Louis campaign jingle, played on the radio to promote Joe Louis fights.
While this novel is based on facts, Bird in a Box is a work of fiction. This book started with a story told to me by my late maternal grandmother, Marjorie Frances Williams. “Gam,” as we called her, loved to talk about her father, George “Cyclone” Williams, a local amateur prizefighter who, as a teenager, boxed in Elmira, New York, and other small towns in the Chemung County region of New York State. Cyclone, my great-grandfather, was known by the local press as “Elmira’s Sensational Battler.” A devoted Joe Louis fan, he became my character Willie Martel.
When I was the age Hibernia is in this story, my mother—who spent part of her childhood in a Depression-era orphanage—told me how important Joe Louis’s victories had been for African Americans. As a young girl, I enjoyed family gatherings, listening to adults recalling the night Joe Louis nabbed the world heavyweight championship title. My mother described how she felt as a girl herself, seeing grown men and women crying tears of joy at the stunning achievement of a black mother’s son.
This novel’s remaining characters—Otis, Hibernia, Lila, and the reverend—are derived from other family members and their shared experiences.
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