“Two bucks, ten,” Jim explained. “I already paid back everybody else.”
Jim turned, headed toward the door.
“Jim,” Johnston called. Braddock turned. “I got reels of all Max Baer’s fights. You can come up here, use the projector any time you want.”
Jim’s jaw worked a moment, then he nodded, turned, and left the club. Joe Gould snapped the card out of Johnston’s hand and followed his fighter. When they were gone, Johnston reached down and lifted the cigar from the thick carpet. Somehow his stogie had gotten crushed. With a curse, he tossed it into the trash can.
The Continental Club was still the same, thought Jim, as “Braddock, party of four” was shown their table. Graceful, curved walls paneled with blond wood, tables separated by etched-glass panels. Exquisite Art Deco fixtures, furnishings. A piano player stroking out classy tunes in a muted corner.
The saucer-shaped, upholstered booths were jammed with well-heeled customers. White-coated waiters raced to and fro, shouldering silver trays brimming with china and crystal. There were no hard times here, not like the grimy world beyond these elegant walls. The world of tenements, wharves, rail yards—of Hooverville and potter’s fields.
Jim, Mae, Joe, and Lucille ate, drank, and laughed the night away. Now, with the remains of a fine meal on their plates and the ladies visiting the powder room, Joe and Jim faced each other across the linen-draped table. For a long time, neither spoke. Braddock broke the silence. “Since when did you get quiet?”
Gould chuckled, then grew serious. “These last three fights,” he said in a low voice. “We sure showed ’em, didn’t we?”
Braddock glanced at his manager suspiciously.
“Look, I put you in some bad situations,” said Gould. He glanced away then. His mouth moved, but no words came out.
“What are you getting at, Joe?”
Gould squirmed, adjusted his collar. “Jim. You’re the toughest kid on the playground. But this Max Baer. It’s a whole other thing. You got nothing to prove to me or anyone.”
“You losing faith in me, Joe?”
Gould tapped his index finger on the smooth table top. “Never. Not for one goddamn minute.”
Jim knew it was true, could see it in Gould’s eyes. So what was the problem? Why was his manager talking about throwing in the towel before round one?
Mae and Lucille suddenly appeared, hair and makeup restored.
“Jimmy,” Mae purred, running her finger up his arm. “Can we get silver faucets?”
“Yeah, I’ll order a dozen.” He curled his arm around her slim waist, pulled her close.
Gould raised his hand. “Now, as promised, the piece de resistance.” He yanked a rolled-up newspaper out of his back pocket, slapped it down. “Little bird told me to check the evening edition. Let me see here…”
He flipped through the pages to the sports section, then began to read. “‘Boxer Jim Braddock has come back from the dead to change the face of courage in our nation—’”
Jim blinked. “Who wrote that?”
“Sporty Lewis.”
Joe shook the paper under Jim’s nose. He swatted it away. Gould continued where he left off. “‘In a land that’s downtrodden, Braddock’s comeback is giving hope to every American.’”
Mae curled her fingers around her husband’s.
“‘People who were ready to throw in the towel are finding inspiration in their new hero, Jim Braddock.’” Gould paused to scan their faces. “‘As Damon Runyon has already written, he’s the Cinderella Man.’”
“Cinderella Man?” Jim didn’t look happy.
Mae squeezed his hand. “I like it,” she laughed. “It’s girly.”
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” groaned Braddock.
A server arrived to clear the table. Mae’s eyes darted to her husband. “Jim.”
He stopped the waiter. “Not quite done here, friend.” The man nodded, slipped away. Mae drew crinkled waxed paper from her purse, carefully emptied each plate onto it, and folded it around the food scraps. Lucille looked away.
“I’ll get the bill,” said Joe, waving the card in his stubby finger. “Johnston’s a big spender, and he’s leaving a big tip.” He winked. “A peach. Gotta love the guy.”
Mae closed her purse, glanced up. Suddenly she tensed.
A broad-shouldered giant had just walked through the front door accompanied by two young women. Glittering playthings in gaudy finery, one hung on each of his brawny arms. But it was the man’s shock of black hair, volcanic blue eyes, and savage, dynamic presence that drew everyone’s attention. Conversations faded and died as the barbarian in bone-white evening clothes strode confidently to the polished oak bar. In the silence, a man sitting nearby whispered to his female companion. “It’s Max Baer.”
Mae touched her husband’s arm. “Jimmy…”
Braddock’s mood darkened. He turned to Gould. “You think Johnston set this up?”
“Sure. Few extra pics for the dailies,” said Gould. With his manager’s eyes, he appraised the fighter leaning against the bar across the room.
At over six feet and close to 200, the bronzed Baer had prime attributes for a ringman—slim waist, massive shoulders, long arms, and strong legs. Baer was also young, twenty-six to Jim’s twenty-nine, and he had the deadliest right punch that Gould had ever seen, probably the most powerful in the history of boxing. His record included twenty-four KOs but he hadn’t gone undefeated. Back in 1931, he’d lost to Tommy Loughran, just like Braddock, but Gould knew that Dempsey had coached “Madcap Maxie” afterward, instructing him to shorten his punches to prevent the telegraphing that had cost him the match.
Baer was still a crude swinger, however, and he’d never bothered to develop a left, so Gould knew there were ways to beat him. And yet, he couldn’t get that Long Island City Bowl massacre of Primo Carnera out of his head. The Italian giant had gone down eleven times at the business end of Baer’s gloves.
Gould’s gaze moved over the shapely females on each of Baer’s arms, typical accessories for the on-the-town fighter, who’d been romantically linked to movie actresses, chorus girls, and Broadway starlets. There wasn’t a more colorful character than Madcap Maxie in the boxing world, and the New York press loved him. Gould could see why. At a time when the country had hit the skids, Baer had made people feel better by having such a good time himself. Whether he made or lost money, Baer kept smiling, kept hitting the Broadway nightspots and picking up the tab. He’d made a movie with Myrna Loy, opened a song-and-dance revue at the Paramount, and had frequent roles in radio dramas.
“Boys, I’ve got the world by the tail on a downhill pull,” he’d told the press not long ago, “Hollywood, the stage, radio—how that dough is going to roll in. You guys will be writing about how I light cigars with thousand-dollar bills.”
The Roaring Twenties had never stopped for the champ, who’d famously pulled up to New York’s Plaza Hotel five years earlier in a sixteen-cylinder Cadillac driven by a chauffeur. He had ten pairs of trunks and thirty suits of clothes, and an entourage that included a secretary, a manager, and a trainer. But Gould knew Baer had traveled more than just a continent from his beginnings in his father’s California slaughterhouse, where he’d killed steers with a sledgehammer, skinned them, and hoisted their carcasses up to drain. With his copy of Emily Post, he’d managed to smooth the rough edges, learning how to order a meal in a fine restaurant, eat salad with the correct fork. Nevertheless, no matter what social circles the heavyweight now traveled in, Gould had no doubt the man was still capable of delivering killing blows.
Joe’s attention moved away from Baer when he noticed a white-coated waiter approaching their booth, a silver tray with crystal champagne glasses in one hand, an ice bucket in the other. He set down the tray and pulled a champagne bottle out of the bucket, displaying its label to Braddock and Gould. “From the gentleman at the bar…Mr. Baer said to wish you Bon voyage.”
Jim looked at Mae. The blood had run out of her fa
ce. He stood. The alarmed waiter backed up.
“Jimmy—” said Gould.
“Get the coats, Joe.”
Unable to grasp the situation, Mae didn’t even try to restrain her husband as he crossed the dining room, excited whispers joining gawking expressions all around.
Leaning against the bar, Baer watched him approach, flashed a grin that displayed even, white teeth. His companions, a blond and a redhead, caressed Braddock with curious looks. Max set his martini on the bar, crossed his thick-muscled arms.
“If it ain’t Cinderella Man,” Baer bellowed loud enough for the spectators to hear.
They stood toe to toe. “Thanks for the champagne, Mr. Baer. You keep saying in the papers how you’re gonna kill me in the ring.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You know I have three little kids. You’re upsetting my family.”
Baer leaned into Jim. “Listen to me, Braddock. I’m asking you sincerely not to take this fight.” His tone was unexpected. More of a trusted attorney than a deadly pugilist. Baer paused, scanned the room—wary of being overheard. “People admire you. You seem like a decent fellow. I really don’t want to hurt you. It’s no joke, pal. People die in fairy tales all the time.”
Max waited for a response. Braddock’s gaze was stony. The chandelier above them could have been the sword of Damocles.
Suddenly a flashbulb popped. Shouts. “Max! Jim! Maxie!” A half dozen photographers and reporters burst into the club, running roughshod over the headwaiter. Max whirled to face the camera, showing teeth.
“You know, I was thinking…” Baer’s voice was loud, now, the usual hot air inflating his chest. “Smart thing would be to take a fall. Circus act’s over, old man.”
Jim’s browns met Baer’s blues. “I think I’ll try going a few rounds with the dancing bear.”
Joe Gould suddenly pushed through the photographers and reporters, appeared between Braddock and Baer.
“That’s a good one,” he laughed, too hard. His face darkened. “Okay. Let’s keep it in the ring.”
Mae and Lucille stood nearby, wrapped in their coats, watching the confrontation with stunned expressions. Baer noticed Mae, bent low so he could peer into her face.
“You should talk to him, lady. You are sure too pretty to be a widow.”
The women on Baer’s arm tittered. Jim balled his fist, leaned forward, ready to lunge. Gould held his fighter back. “Simmer down.”
Baer’s smirk was mocking as he consumed Braddock’s wife with his admiring gaze. “On second thought, maybe I can comfort you after he’s gone.”
This time it was Gould who leaped, fists swinging, snarling like a rabid dog.
“Joe!” shouted Lucille.
Braddock seized his manager’s coat, dragged him back.
While Jim struggled to keep Joe Gould in check, Mae stepped up to the bar. Baer watched her, his sky-blue eyes curious as she reached out, grabbed his martini, and dashed it in his face.
Flashbulbs popped. Baer chuckled—a deep, menacing rumble. He accepted the attention of one of his girls as she dabbed his white coat with a linen napkin.
“Get that boys?” Baer asked the photographers. “Braddock’s got his wife fighting for him.”
Jim thrust Gould aside, stepped up to Max Baer, went nose to nose with his mocking face. The moment lasted long enough for a photographer to capture it for all time.
Then Braddock lips curled, but it wasn’t a smile. “Yeah,” he said, “she sure is something, ain’t she?”
Braddock turned, took his wife’s hand, led her away. Baer caught Mae’s eyes before they left. Jim saw the exchange and a cloud passed over his face. Joe Gould, arm around Lucille, pushed the fighter toward the door.
Baer’s laughter followed them into the street.
BAER TICKET SALE TO BEGIN
Tickets for the Max Baer-James Braddock heavyweight championship fight at the Madison Square Garden Bowl on June 13 will be placed on sale at the Garden box offices tomorrow morning at 10:30 o’clock, according to an announcement yesterday by James J. Johnston, Garden promoter. Prices will be $2, $5, and $10, plus tax, with ringside seats $20, including tax.
ROUND THIRTEEN
Baer was a guy that could hurt you…But I always said that Max should have been an actor instead of a fighter.
—James J. Braddock,
as quoted by Peter Heller in In This Corner
“Now, here’s how you work a combination.” Still dressed in his Continental Club clothes, Jim loosened his tie, draped his suit jacket on the back of a chair and knelt on the floor, ready to demonstrate the tricks of his fistic trade to Jay and Howard.
“You have to keep your head down, chin tucked. Like this.” Jim struck a classic boxing pose.
Squinting in concentration, Howard lifted his fists and gamely tried to mimic his father. Jay, a little taller and longer limbed, had an easier time of it, his fighting stance a spitting image of Jim’s.
At the basement apartment’s cracked sink, Mae stood scouring a cast-iron skillet she’d used to warm the smuggled leftovers for the kids. As her husband talked, she felt her fingers tightening on the wire brush, her circular motions becoming more violent.
“Okay, now give me a left, right, left,” said Jim.
Skinny arms windmilled, earnestly battling air. When Jay threw his right, he lifted his chin. Jim reached forward, gently bumping his son’s jaw with a closed fist.
“Oops,” said Jim with a wink. “See what just happened?”
“Yeah!” Howard cried. “Jay got clocked.”
“You know why?”
The boys shook their heads.
“He was so busy punching, he wasn’t paying attention.” Jim threw slow-motion punches. “Never take your eyes off your opponent.”
Mae spoke without turning. “That’s enough, now.”
Jim glanced at his wife, unable to suppress his pride. “There’s more than one fighter in the Braddock family, tell you that.”
Jay bounded around the cramped basement apartment, sparring against an imaginary foe. Howard looked up. “What about the left, Dad?”
Jim tucked his own chin, then feinted a straight jab at his son’s nose. “Like that?”
Howard followed the jab until his eyes crossed, then nodded enthusiastically. Suddenly, Jay tossed off a right that threw him off balance. The boy slammed into the easy chair, rocking it.
Mae whirled, exploded. “I said that’s enough, Jay Braddock!” The dripping skillet slipped from her hand and clattered to the hardwood floor.
The boys froze, doe-eyed. Jim stared too.
Mae clutched the edge of the sink with one hand. She’d tried to be stoic, but her head was pounding, the elegant dinner turned rancid in her stomach. “No boxing in the house. No boxing out of the house. No boxing, period.”
Ignoring her husband, Mae pointed at her slack-jawed sons. “You are going to stay in school. Then college. You are going to have professions. You are not going to get your skulls smashed in, is that clear?”
Before the boys could reply or even retreat, Mae turned her back on her family, yanked open the basement apartment’s door and ran out.
Jim hustled the boys off to bed, tucked them in. He comforted Rose Marie, who’d been startled awake by her mother’s loud voice.
Mae hugged herself against the damp April chill, her back turned against the dingy apartment house, against her husband. Instead, she faced the dismal silhouettes littering the dark weeds of the tenement’s junk-strewn backyard—broken chairs, discarded pipes, and rising above it all a smokestack in the distance spewing choking fumes. A siren wailed somewhere north, and she suddenly saw the smirk of Max Baer in those billowing clouds. The sneer of Sporty Lewis—
“Mrs. Braddock, my question is for you…My readers want to know, how do you feel about the fact that Max Baer has killed two men in the ring?”
Mae heard Jim’s steps behind her. He was coming for her, would want to know what was wrong.
“Mae?”
She didn’t turn to face him. She just couldn’t, not until she told him how she felt. In the distance, the siren’s wail faded. She swallowed her nerves, tried to summon her courage, then finally confessed to her husband the secret she’d kept for so many years.
“I used to pray for you to get hurt—”
Jim stepped back, the words hitting him physically.
“Just enough so you couldn’t fight anymore,” she added quickly.
He blinked, speechless.
“And when they took your license, even scared as I was, I went to the church and thanked God for it. I always knew a day might come where a fight could kill you. I just knew…and now it’s here.”
Braddock stepped forward, touched her shoulder, turned her to face him. “You’re just getting the jitters.”
Mae shook his hand away. “There’s more to it.” She closed her eyes and for a moment was back at ringside all those years ago, enduring the spectacle that had made her vow never to watch her husband fight again…
Blood. She’d seen blood before in a boxing match, but never so much, and never so much on Jim. He’d been brutally slammed to the canvas that night, his face bruised, streaked in crimson. And the men around her, the bookies, the reporters, the fight fans, they just kept talking about Jim as if he were some racehorse they’d laid a bet on. “Ain’t showin’ much stamina,” or “He ain’t got the legs,” or “Nix to the odds with this guy…”
Mae opened her eyes in the tenement yard, found her husband’s gaze in the shadows. “We’ve got enough now. Why can’t you stop?” Her voice was pleading.
This time it was Jim who turned away.
Mae’s fists balled. “He’s killed two men, Jim. Why fight him? What’s worth it?”
Jim frowned. Stared at the grimy brick wall. “This is what I know how to do.”
Mae watched his broad shoulders. Waited for him to turn back to her, to take her in his arms, to tell her he’d change his mind.
But Jim didn’t turn. A part of him wished he could—the part that wanted to be a good husband, to give Mae anything she asked for. But life hadn’t made that possible for him. His wife just didn’t understand how he felt, how Mike Wilson felt. They were capable, strong, hardworking men, but the world had told them they were helpless, worthless. They were proud husbands and fathers who’d found themselves unable to take care of their wives, their families. He wanted to tell Mae about the thousands of other men living on the streets, in the shantytown Hoovervilles, the ones who’d gathered around him outside the Garden when he’d won the Lasky fight—men who were in the same fix as he was, and who now looked up to the boxer they called the Cinderella Man with something like hope in their eyes.
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