“It ain’t no favor. Griffin’s opponent got cut and can’t fight. They needed somebody they could throw in on a day’s notice. Nobody legit will take a fight against Griffin without training, so…”
Joe Gould looked away, then gave Jim a sidelong glance. When he spoke, his tone was apologetic. “I…I told them they could use the angle Griffin was gonna knock out a guy’d never been knocked out before…You’re meat, Jimmy…”
To Gould’s surprise, Jim didn’t take offense. “You on the level?”
“Always.”
Jim studied Gould for what seemed like a long time. On the stoop, Rosy had taken an interest in the conversation. During the long silence, she squinted, her little mind working.
Finally, Braddock grinned and clapped his rough hands on Gould’s shoulders. Then he looked his manager in the eye. “Joe. For two hundred and fifty bucks I’d fight your wife.”
Jim hadn’t spoken to Mae since the scene between Mike and Sara earlier in the day. When Mae returned from the grocery store, he told her the good news Joe Gould had brought. Mae listened and then nodded silently. Jim knew his wife was not happy with the situation, so he kept on talking—about how long he would have to work at the docks or the yards to earn so much ready cash, and the fact that it was only one fight, not a comeback.
In the end, Mae told Jim to take the bout. It was, she told herself, only one more fight. No more than an exhibition, really—or so Jim told her. But that night, as her husband slept soundly for the first time in many months, Mae could not rest. Instead, she sat in the darkness on their lumpy old sofa. Wrapped in a tattered robe, she watched her husband sleep through eyes red from crying.
The next morning, when Jay and Howard went outside to play, they took Rosy with them. But instead of starting up a game of pink ball or stick ball, they headed across the street and down the block to the local butcher shop.
The door was locked and the blind was pulled down. Jay and Howard exchanged uncertain glances, but Rosy boldly reached out and tapped the glass with her tiny hand.
Sam, in a blood-stained shirt and apron, opened the door a crack. He peered down at the motley crew at his door and shook his head. “We’re closed today,” he grumbled.
Sam glared at Jay and Howard. Rosy stepped in front of her brothers. “Let me do the talking,” she whispered, then pushed the door open and stepped through, followed by Howard and Jay.
Sam stepped back, beefy hands on hips. “Where’s your folks?”
Rosy ignored the question. Head held high, she strutted right past the butcher and up to the counter.
“Well, look who’s here,” said the butcher, eyeing Jay, the salami thief. “Should I lock up everything?”
Jay flushed red but bravely stood by his sister, who was tapping her fingers impatiently on the countertop.
Sam stepped up to her, crossed his arms.
“I need a piece of meat, sir,” said Rosy. “Peter’s house, please.”
“You mean porterhouse?” asked the butcher.
Rosy nodded.
“You got any money?”
The little girl shook her head. Sam sighed and his expression softened. “I can’t just give it away, not even to a stray little lady and her bodyguards.”
“How about something you dropped on the floor?”
But Sam shook his bald head. “I don’t drop it. And if I do I clean it off. It’s too precious.”
“It’s not for me…”
Sam scratched his unshaven chin. “Who’s it for?”
“My dad,” Rosy replied. “He needs it so he can win a boxing fight.”
ROUND EIGHT
I was always more or less the underdog. It didn’t make no difference to me.
—James J. Braddock,
as quoted by Peter Heller in In This Corner
Long Island City, New York
June 14, 1934
PRIMO CARNERA VS. MAX BAER HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP FIGHT! AND FOUR OTHER FIGHTS
The Madison Square Garden Bowl was where the Garden promoters took their fight cards in the heat of the New York summer. The outdoor arena was located just across the East River in the borough of Queens, and its bleacher capacity was more than twice the number of the indoor facility’s nineteen thousand seats.
Tonight Jim Braddock’s name wasn’t on the marquee. He was no longer a headliner—and he couldn’t have cared less. Two hundred fifty dollars and the chance to punch something real, to give as good as he got, were the only things on his mind as he entered the dressing room.
Outside, the fifty-six thousand capacity crowd hadn’t crossed the East River to see Jim Braddock, and he knew it. They were here for the main event. The Italian-born heavyweight champ, “Satchel Foot” Primo Carnera, was set to defend his title against a promising up-and-comer named Max Baer, a powerful California-born fighter who’d forged the body of Apollo swinging a sledgehammer in his father’s slaughterhouse. Baer’s right hook was so deadly he had already killed a man in the ring.
Still, a few local sports reporters and fistic connoisseurs with long memories were intrigued to hear James J. Braddock was on the dock for the opening bout, wondering if it was the same boxer who’d ended his career in such humiliation, losing a title match to Tommy Loughran then shattering his right on Abe Feldman’s skull.
Joe Gould had mixed emotions about what he’d set up. He’d been angling to get Braddock a fight ever since that freezing winter afternoon when Jim had arrived, hat in hand, in the middle of the Garden’s dark-paneled, cigar-smoke-filled boxing club. Gould had pestered Johnston to no end after that, barging into his office unannounced and angering the Garden’s powerful promoter in a half dozen separate incidents.
As fate would have it, Joe Gould had been waiting in Johnston’s outer office for yet another chance to see the big man when Johnston got the bad news about Corn Griffin’s opponent. The boxer had backed out of the match due to a facial cut, just two days prior to the big fight.
Griffin, a private in the United States Army, was a rising star from down South who came to the big city looking for red meat. Johnston decided that, in order to attract the attention of the New York press, Corn would have to beat a has-been who used to be someone. Now it appeared that James Braddock would fit the bill, especially since Braddock’s manager happened to be waiting in the outer office, and the guy had been badgering Johnston for months to put Braddock back in the ring.
Johnston had figured Gould for a pushover, but after he ushered the manager into his plush inner sanctum and made the offer, he discovered to his dismay that Braddock’s manager was still angling for a better deal.
“How about giving us Dynamite Jackson?” Gould had asked.
It was a wily suggestion, to say the least, and Johnston was savvy enough to know it. Within boxing circles, the rumor was ripe that Jackson was outboxing Max Baer in sparring rounds at Baer’s Asbury Park training camp. But the real reason Gould wanted Braddock to battle Dynamite was because Jim had beaten Jackson in 1932, and Gould figured his fighter could repeat that victory.
But Johnston didn’t care what Gould wanted or what would make Braddock look good. He was in a bind with the Corn Griffin bout, and he wasn’t in the mood for any of Gould’s conniving.
“You’re always on my neck to get a bout for that washed-up heavyweight of yours,” Johnston had bellowed. “But when I give you one, you turn around and want an offer to fight somebody else. Well, you tell Braddock that he fights Griffin, or he don’t fight at all.”
So Gould accepted the offer, and though Jim Braddock seemed completely sanguine about the coming bout, Joe Gould was secretly fighting panic. He was well aware that Jim had not boxed in over a year, hadn’t trained at all, and had only one workout prior to the match—and Jim had complained the whole time that he was losing a day’s wages at the docks to squeeze the warm-up into his schedule. Then, of course, there was the cherry on top, of which Jim had reminded Gould after arriving at the gate.
“I mean, Christsakes
,” Gould ranted, “a hundred and something fights, you never been knocked out—for God’s sake, who goes and sells his gear?”
Gould brought shoes, gloves, and a robe to the dressing room. He dumped them on the bench. Braddock, seated calmly in his trunks while his hands were being taped, looked up as Gould shook his head and muttered. “Borrowed gear, borrowed robe…”
Jim lifted a boxing shoe. It was bright red, like a clown’s. “Maybe I oughta get an aooga horn, chase him around the ring,” he said with a wry lightness that Joe hadn’t heard from Jim in a long time.
“You been drinking?”
Braddock pretended to frown. “Now why go and hurt my feelings?”
Gould slapped his boxer’s naked back. Braddock hardly winced. “Well, you’re too loose, you’re spooking me,” said Gould. “Sharpen up.”
As Gould squatted to lace Jim’s shoes, Braddock smiled. “Come on, Joe, we both know what this is, right?” He shrugged. “I get to put a little more distance between my kids and the street. And say goodbye at the Garden with a full house night of a big fight.”
Gould shifted his attention to the other shoe while Jim fingered the worn gloves. “What’s Griffin gonna show me that I ain’t already seen?”
Suddenly, a loud rumble erupted from Jim’s gut. “What the hell was that?” cried Gould.
Jim shrugged again. “They ran out of soup on the line this morning.”
Gould jumped to his feet, leaned into Braddock’s face. “How the hell you gonna fight on an empty stomach?” He ran from the room.
A few minutes later, the voice of radio announcer Ford Bond echoed through the locker rooms. “Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s broadcast of the Primo Carnera, Max Baer fight for the heavyweight championship of the world.”
Jim rose and shook out his arms, waiting to be announced. Gould burst into the room, a chipped bowl in hand. “Hash is all they had,” he said, “eat fast.”
“Where’s the spoon?” asked Braddock.
Gould rubbed his neck. “It isn’t there?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “You gotta go anyway.”
Braddock sniffed the bowl. “One bite,” he pleaded.
Jim started to dip his fingers into the bowl, but Gould pulled him back. “Hey, I don’t have time to re-tape you! Sit tight, I’ll find one.”
Gould rushed out again. Jim lifted the hash to his nose, sniffed the greasy, hot meat again. The temptation was too much. He shoved his face into the bowl and began gobbling up the contents. He never noticed the dressing-room door opening.
“Good God. Am I seeing a ghost? An apparition?”
Jim looked up, hash dripping from his chin. A young man stood in the doorway in a rumpled suit, press pass pinned to his lapel. He smirked at Braddock, who’d been wolfing down hash like a starving mutt.
“Isn’t that James J. Braddock, the Bulldog of Bergen?” He stepped into the room and pulled out his narrow reporter’s notebook. “Saw your name on the card. Thought it had to be a different guy.”
Jim set the bowl down and stood, wiped his mouth, cheeks, and chin with a towel and tossed it into a corner. The reporter stepped forward, threw a few shadow punches at Braddock.
“Come on, Jimmy. How’s that right? No hello for your old pal?”
Braddock’s eyes narrowed. “New York Herald, July 18, 1929,” he said. “Byline, Sporty Lewis…”
When he heard his name, Lewis grinned.
“Proving Jim Braddock was too young, too green, and rushed to the top, Loughran wiped the ring with the Bulldog’s career,” Braddock quoted. “A sad and somber funeral with the body still breathing.”
Lewis saw the look in Braddock’s eyes and his grin vanished. “Look, Braddock, I don’t fight the fights. I just write about them.”
Braddock stepped up to Sporty, until they stood toe to toe. “Save that crap for the customers.” Jim’s glare was lethal. “You got me?”
The deadlock was broken by a Garden official who appeared in the doorway. He pointed at Braddock. “You’re on, pal.”
Braddock moved aside, eyes still locked with Sporty’s. Then he reached for the robe and stepped around the official. Sporty stared after him, pale and slightly shaken. When Braddock was gone, Lewis turned to the official.
“That guy,” he said, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. “What a washout.”
A few minutes later, at his ringside seat, Sporty felt a cub reporter tapping his shoulder. He held up the program. “Who’s Jim Braddock?” the kid cried over the roar of the mob.
Sporty looked over his shoulder. Braddock and Joe Gould were moving slowly down the aisle, toward the ring. He shook his head. “Get your pencil out, kid. I got your lead line for you: ‘The walk from the locker room to the ring was the only time tonight that old Jim Braddock was seen on his feet.’”
When Jim reached the ring, he climbed over the ropes and warmed up on the springy canvas with a little dancing, ducking, and air boxing. He turned away from the reporters, and they noticed the name emblazoned on the back of his borrowed robe. The cub reporter, even more confused, scratched his head.
“Who’s Fred Carston?”
Back in New Jersey, Quincy’s bar was packed with a capacity crowd of mostly water drinkers. The bartender couldn’t have been less thrilled. Quincy scowled as he dried a glass on his apron, then turned away from the nonpaying patrons to switch on the radio. The voice of Ford Bond filled the smoky tavern.
“Well, it seems Jim Braddock has come out of retirement just for tonight…” the announcer said.
The conversation died as the men looked at one another, doubting their hearing. One of the men from the docks shook his head in disbelief. “Nah. Can’t be…”
All eyes turned to Mike, who sat back in his chair and shook his head, as surprised as everyone else.
“In this corner, Corn Griffin!”
The ref moved aside as the two-hundred-and-ten-pound Griffin leaped to the center of the ring and clapped his gloves together, then raised his veined, muscular arms above his head. The six-foot-two, freckle-faced kid wore black trunks and sported a crew cut and a confident grin. Though a virtual unknown in the Northeast, the Southern-born GI provoked a smattering of applause.
“And in this corner…from New Jersey…Jim Braddock!”
There was no reaction from the crowd.
Braddock nodded to the referee, whom he knew by name, then crossed to the center ring for the final instructions, but he didn’t hear a word of the ref’s spiel. Under the brilliant lights of the outdoor arena, he was taking the measure of his opponent. Corn was young, powerful, assured. A golden-boy heavyweight with a long reach and a massive right arm. After a moment, the ref banished the fighters to their respective corners.
Jim waited, eyeing Corn, who was playing to the crowd and ringside press—until the bell rang. Then Griffin came out punching, hard and fast, his smooth legwork like silk lightning. Jim ducked, danced, and weaved, doing all he could to avoid Corn’s power-house blows, but the throws seemed to come from everywhere.
It took only thirty seconds for Jim to decide that taking this fight was a bad idea—his opponent was in top form, his jabs and body shots perfectly timed and hard to digest. Braddock’s only goal now was survival. He had to walk away from this fight on his own two feet if he was going to put in a day’s work at the docks tomorrow.
Jim absorbed a flurry of blows, then moved in close for the clinch. As the ref broke them, Corn straightened Jim with a stiff uppercut and Braddock blinked away motes of light exploding in his head.
In Braddock’s corner, Joe Gould was shouting and waving his arms as usual, reflecting the shadow play of events in the ring. “Step inside those hooks, Jim…Keep your head down…”
It was just like the old days for the little manager, if not for the man in the ring. Suddenly, Jim spied a right hook out of the corner of his eye, and deftly knocked it aside with his left, surprised by his own move. Corn tossed a vicious haymaker. It caught the side of Braddock’
s head, and he went down hard.
As his back slammed the canvas, Jim’s vision blurred and all clocks seemed to stop ticking. Vaguely, through a haze, he saw reporters on their feet at ringside, among them the sneering face of Sporty Lewis.
“Oh, and Braddock is down!” cried Ford Bond into the microphone he gripped in his fist. “A thunderous left hook from Griffin sends Braddock to the mat!”
The crowd in the Garden, more animated now, began to boo and shout catcalls. Back in Jersey, Mike waved at the other patrons in Quincy’s bar, beckoning them silent as he hung on the announcer’s words.
“…And it’s the count,” said Bond.
“One…Two…Three…”
Jim struggled to rise.
“Four…Five…Six…”
He made it to one knee but was still clutching the ropes. The count would not stop.
“Hey, what’s the rush?” Gould called to his fighter, balling his fists and air punching. “Two lefts, Jimmy. Pop, pop.”
Finally Braddock stood, as shaky as a newborn colt, blood streaming down his sweaty, heaving chest from a cut inside his mouth. The ref stepped up to him and checked his pupils, held up two fingers, checked the cut.
“It’s over, Braddock,” the referee told him over the roar of the crowd.
James Braddock blinked. He peered over the head of the referee, surveyed Corn Griffin, who was waiting for the decision on the opposite side of the ring. With a crimson grin, Jim glanced at the ref. “He don’t look that bad, Bill.”
The ref shook his head, and began to raise his hand to stop the fight. Jim clutched his arm with two gloved hands. “Billy. Please. Let me go.”
The ref hesitated, and their eyes locked. Jim nodded once, a silent plea. Finally, the ref stepped aside.
Corn Griffin was waiting. Like a bull he charged across the ring, leading with his right. Jim easily dodged the blow aimed at his head, but Griffin served up a nasty left jab that stole his breath. Jim responded with Gould’s proscribed left jabs. Though ineffectual, Jim was surprised he could deliver a left at all.
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