Cinderella Man

by Marc Cerasini

  After a beat, McAvoy called for a break, but instead of releasing him, Baer tried to wrestle Braddock.

  “Dirty fighting!” bellowed Joe Gould from the ropes. “Baer’s a stinking rat!”

  McAvoy exploded at the breach of fistic etiquette. Shook his finger in Maxie’s face. “I warned ya, Baer. I say break once and I don’t say it twice!”

  Max released Braddock amid boos and catcalls. Legs braced, Baer pulled up his trunks, shook the sweat out of his shock of black hair. Turning his back on Braddock, he threw up his hands by way of apology. Out of the corner of his eye, Baer could see Braddock had let his guard down.

  Without warning, Baer spun, delivering a thundering right to Braddock’s sinewy torso. That crimson bruise was like a target, and Maxie aimed for it. His glove slammed flesh, dug deep to grind the ribs to the bone. But to everyone’s surprise—especially Baer’s—Braddock countered with a left-right combination before retreating.

  Baer snarled his frustration, threw a right hook and cursed when it grazed Braddock’s jaw, barely touching his opponent a split second before the round ended.

  ROUND 5

  Ancil Hoffman rubbed the back of his neck in dismay. He could see plain as day that Braddock’s ribs were mashed, yet the man was controlling the round, repeatedly jabbing his fighter, throwing Max off guard and off balance.

  Joe Gould’s shouted instructions to “protect your goddamn ribs, Jimmy” had not gone unheeded, and Braddock had doubled his footwork to elude his opponent. Baer was going for the knockout now. Ancil could see it in his eyes, the way he telegraphed his punches, and Ancil knew Baer was timing his throws wrong, waiting for the chance to use the sledgehammer rather than wearing his opponent down, which was obviously Braddock’s strategy.

  But no matter how many times his man sent a punch forward, Braddock wasn’t accepting delivery. The challenger slipped and pivoted, dodging every blow the champ tossed at him.

  Ancil winced when Max Baer’s own lunge threw him off balance. Braddock, by contrast, was gliding so gracefully away from Maxie’s swings he made the champ look like a stumblebum. The crowd booed. Even some of the reporters laughed. “Traitorous bastards,” muttered Ancil.

  Baer was equally infuriated. He charged Braddock, but his uppercut slapped nothing but air. Braddock’s terse reply was a stream of long jabs that rained on Baer’s face. Blinded by leather, Baer clinched. Before McAvoy could break the fighters apart, Baer rose up and smacked Jim with an illegal backhand.

  Ancil cursed, hammered the ropes.

  Gould was hopping mad. “What the hell, McAvoy?!” he bawled. “Wake up, you wet son of a bitch, wake up!”

  McAvoy chuffed, shot Gould a peeved look. Then he tapped Baer’s head, held a warning finger under his nose. The champ could hardly see it. Even locked in a clinch, Braddock was tagging Baer, finishing with a right to his jawbone.

  “Come on, break it up,” Ancil bellowed.

  But the clinch only got tighter. As Baer grappled, Braddock butted his head against the champ’s chin. Baer’s teeth rattled under the mouth protector. Then the champ roared, enraged.

  “No, Maxie, no!” Ancil cried, even as Baer lifted Braddock and tossed him against the ropes.

  The crowd howled for Baer’s blood. With loud boos, they pitched balled-up newspapers, cigar butts, food wrappers into the ring. Max turned and contemptuously saluted the grumbling mob. Then he shook his gloved fist at Jim Braddock’s nose, who eyed him warily under sweat-soaked hair.

  The bell closed out the round.

  In the corner, Ernie worked Max’s shoulder. Ancil Hoffman hopped over the ropes and screamed at his fighter. “What the hell are you doing?!”

  Max sneered, eyes on Braddock. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Then quit screwing around!”

  Ernie spoke up. “Boss, I think Maxie stopped screwing around a while ago—”

  Ancil’s thorny glare shut the corner man up.

  “Relax,” gargled Max, spitting water.

  Ancil followed Max’s gaze to the opposite corner. Gould was huddled tight with Braddock.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll relax,” said Ancil. “After we walk out of here with that title.”

  ROUND 6

  A snarling Max Baer drew first blood. The champ came out swinging, driving three terrific uppercuts home within the opening seconds of the round.

  Blood flowed from Braddock’s nose, his mouth. Baer saw the crimson torrent and was back in the slaughterhouse, breathing the metallic tang of freshly spilled gore, feeling the life-and-death power of his smashing hammer, the cracking skulls shocking his arm, building his body into the Apollo of the boxing world—a godlike standing he had no intention of relinquishing, least of all to a broken-down bum three years his senior. Baer grunted with animal satisfaction.

  Braddock came back with a weak left that creased Max’s face. Baer fired back with a short right uppercut that threw Braddock back. He closed to finish the aging Irishman, when suddenly, Baer found himself on the receiving end of a wrecking ball.

  From somewhere, Braddock summoned enough raw power to dispatch a devastating right to Baer’s jaw. Max’s knees sagged, the stadium lights faded, came back brighter than before. He fought for air, tasted leather as Braddock rattled his head with one, two, three left jabs.

  Through a hazy fog, Baer wobbled on the canvas. He threw, determined to continue the slugfest, but Braddock’s left was everywhere, delivering body blows like Baer’s chorus girls delivered kisses—though Braddock’s connections were a tad less gentle.

  Baer repaid Braddock in kind, dishing up a flurry so fast and furious that Jim gasped for breath. Baer stepped in to press his advantage, but his eagerness turned his punches wild and wide, and he missed his target. Braddock didn’t. His left dug into Baer’s face. Surprise left Max with a lowered guard, and Braddock’s glove hammered the champ’s temple.

  Thunder and lightning struck together, splitting Max’s vision. He staggered. Through a red veil he saw Braddock’s silhouette. He wanted to strike back, but his right eye throbbed, began to close.

  For the first time in this title fight, Baer was relieved to hear the bell that ended the round. As he stumbled to his corner, Baer vowed to finish the challenger off in the next, even if he had to kill Jim Braddock right here and now, in front of tens of thousand of the Cinderella Man’s pathetically devoted fans.

  ROUND 7

  Joe Gould watched Max Baer burst from his corner and knew by the gleam in the fighter’s eyes that the champ was finished clowning. Crouched, fists raised, Max Baer was all business. The audience sensed the change as well, and were swept to their feet in quiet alarm

  “Keep sliding, Jim,” Gould bellowed, his voice hoarse. “Just keep sliding to the right. And don’t rush him.”

  But Jim was unafraid, and met Baer in the center ring. After hurling a glancing body blow, Baer took a left-right combination to his outthrust jaw. Max fired back with a long right that barely missed Braddock’s head—Joe Gould could hear the swish of leather cutting air, the collective intake of breath from the audience.

  Baer missed with another wild right and Braddock popped him with a hard jab, then another. Baer threw his weight against his foe and they fell into a clinch.

  “I’m getting bored, old man,” hissed Baer, loud enough for the people at ringside to hear it.

  McAvoy moved quickly to pull them apart, and Baer used his muscle and weight to toss Braddock around.

  “Watch that!” the ref warned.

  Max connected with a quick set of slams to Jim’s sweet spot, the blotchy red bruise on his vulnerable ribs. The last jab hit below the belt, and Gould went crazy—

  “Dirty stinking rat! Pay attention, McAvoy!”

  Braddock grunted in agreement. “Keep ’em up, Max.”

  Max smiled—a deadly poisonous thing—delivered a stunning combination to Braddock’s torso, his head.

  “That up enough?” Baer roared.

  Through the brutal surge o
f agony, Jim forced a half smile. “Yeah, Max. That’s fine.”

  Gould could see his boy was hurting. That the tenderness in his ribs was going to bring him down. But Jim swallowed the pain, found a way to slap Max back with a jerking jab to his head before falling against Baer in another clinch.

  McAvoy yanked the boxers apart as the bell clanged. But Baer, whether he hadn’t heard the signal or simply ignored it, shoved the ref aside and landed a series of combinations on Jim, who came back, raging mad, with a powerful uppercut followed by a left hook. They were the most forceful blows Jim could muster. Max Baer just laughed.

  As McAvoy jumped between the boxers, they glared at each other over the referee’s bobbing head.

  At ringside, Ford Bond’s tinny voice spewed words faster than the challenger’s fists—

  “Baer, a crude swinger but heavy handed, had smashed former champion Max Schmeling into defeat on his way to the title and cruelly battered the huge Primo Carnera to become champion. He had been expected to blast Braddock out of the fight. But here it is, the end of the seventh and Baer and Braddock are dead even.”

  ROUND FIFTEEN

  No contender for a title ever entered the ring conceded so little chance. Braddock was regarded by many of the ringsiders as a pathetic figure, as merely a pugilistic sacrifice to the glory of Baer.

  —Damon Runyon, 1936

  Mae came through the front door, unpinned her hat. The house seemed empty.

  “Alice?”

  She stepped into the parlor. A lamp was glowing, a newspaper spread open across the couch. A meal was set on the kitchen table, uneaten, and the dining room was dark and deserted. Then Mae heard a voice—muted, familiar. The sound was mingled with the noise of a crowd.

  Mae found them in the hallway, gathered on the hardwood floor around the open closet door: her sister Alice, Jay and Howard at her side, Rosy resting on her elbows, staring intently at the radio, listening to the distinctive voice of announcer Ford Bond.

  “In the seventh round, Max Baer staged a slashing outburst. He tore into Jimmy Braddock with a series of vicious uppercuts. The crowd was impressed with the champ’s display and waited for big things from Max Baer in the eighth round. But they didn’t count on Braddock’s determination to finish the fight, and it was the champ who took it on the chin…”

  Rosy saw her mother in the doorway. “It’s the cops.”

  Jay and Howard looked up. Mae loomed over them. Howard’s guilt was all consuming. Jay’s was mingled with defiance.

  “…By the ninth round, it was an established fact that Braddock has fought better than anybody thought he could, though some would say that it is only because Baer allowed it. The proof of their assertion came in the tenth round, when Max Baer completely dominated the ring…”

  Mae reached for the cord in the wall. Jay caught her eye. “Please, Ma.”

  She peered into their pleading faces—including her sister’s. Against such odds Mae couldn’t help but surrender. But she stubbornly refused to listen herself. Wordlessly, she walked away.

  On the radio, the bell clanged, signaling the start of the eleventh round.

  ROUND 11

  Raging mad, Baer stormed out of his corner, his eyes a black abyss. Jim saw him coming, danced to the right. Max stayed with him and ripped away, pinning Braddock with a right-left combination.

  Jim tasted the leather, blinked to clear his eyes. Then it came. Baer’s sledgehammer right—the punch that buried Frankie Campbell, that turned Ernie Schaff into a walking dead man. It seemed to Braddock that he’d been lifted off the canvas, that his legs had been cut off. He felt weightless and heavy at the same time. Mind floating, knees unable to support his weight

  “Oh,” screamed Ford Bond. “What a tremendous shot by Baer, flush on Braddock’s chin…”

  Jim stumbled backward, felt the ropes cut into his back. He heard the crowd’s roar, the announcer screaming over the chaos.

  “…Braddock is reeling against the ropes while Baer stands like a wood chopper waiting for the tree to fall!”

  Suddenly, ridiculously, the cry of his youngest son, Howard, popped into Braddock’s frazzled mind. “Timmmm-berrrrr!” With it came the memory of his family, of what he was fighting for—and against. Like an approaching subway train, reality roared back, the howls of the audience battering his ears. Jim felt the ropes, let them carry his weight for a moment. He knew he’d been hit, but it was nothing new. Baer might have smashed him, but no harder than he had been smashed by the Crash of 1929. He’d forced himself to keep going after that knockdown. To get up again. And he got up now. Back on his feet.

  Through eyes suddenly focused, Braddock saw Baer hovering near. Braddock grinned. Referee McAvoy stepped aside to allow the fight to resume, but Baer just stared at Jim, an expression of frustrated disbelief on the champ’s broken face.

  Braddock shifted his weight, bounced back on his feet. Baer shrugged, tucked his chin into his chest and moved in to finish the job. Braddock lashed out with a sharp right that took the champ off guard. He followed that jab with another—then another.

  Baer staggered back, startled as blood burst from his lips. He touched the gloves to his face, they came away red. Baer wiped his gloves on the back of his trunks—the opening Braddock was waiting for. Braddock stepped in as fast as he’d moved in the first round and nailed Baer with an explosive right. Baer wheeled in a half turn, caught his balance.

  He turned back to Braddock, insulted that the challenger would interrupt his preening ritual, and lunged with looping rights that failed to connect. With each miss, Jim stabbed at Max. A jab, a cross, another jab. Braddock felt the strength flow back into his limbs with each swing.

  The tumultuous screams that filled the stadium drowned out the sound of the bell, and Johnny McAvoy had to pull the fighters apart. As he stumbled back to his corner, Max Baer spat blood.

  “Doc, get over here!” Gould screamed. Braddock was hardly on the stool when the cutman started working under his eye, cleaning and closing the deep wound. The gash had been torn by Baer’s sledgehammer, which Braddock had survived, to the champ’s dismay.

  Through streams of sweat and blood Braddock focused on Joe Gould. The man’s face was flushed, he seemed close to tears. Jimmy tried to cheer him up with a wisecrack—“Do I look that bad?”—but his lips felt like wet putty.

  “Jimmy,” said Gould. “Win, lose, or draw…” His voice caught.

  Jim smiled under the surgery. “Thanks, Joe. For all of it.”

  Gould’s mouth moved, Braddock lifted a blood-stained glove. “Joe. Stop talking.”

  Mae gave up pretending. Pretending to relax in the living room. Pretending to read the newspaper article she’d been staring at. Pretending she could not hear the muted sounds from the radio in the next room. Pretending that her husband was safe and fine and not battling for his life.

  Finally, Mae threw aside the paper, rose from the couch, and crossed the living room. She peeked around the corner, into the hallway. The closet door was still open, Alice, Jay, Howard and Rosy transfixed by the voice of the sports announcer.

  Lurking just around the corner, where her children couldn’t see her, Mae leaned against the wall and listened too.

  ROUND 12

  Baer and Braddock faced each other, swapped left hooks. The motion seemed futile until Braddock’s lightning combination sent Baer scrambling backward in an effort to escape.

  Braddock moved with him to press the attack. Then Baer lifted a gloved fist and stuck it in Braddock’s face—not to strike him, but to blind the challenger to his real swing, a lethal right cross.

  From the sidelines, Joe Gould recognized Baer’s trademark move, opened his mouth to scream a warning.

  Gould didn’t have to. Joe Jeanette had spied the move while viewing Baer’s fight films weeks before, clued Jimmy to the trick, made him train for endless hours to be ready for just such a maneuver. Braddock deftly slapped Baer’s left aside and stung Max with a sharp jab. Then he circled
to the right, out of Baer’s reach.

  “He’s slow, Jimmy!” howled Gould. “Dance around him. You know what to do. Baer’s a bum.”

  Baer, angry and off balance, threw a futile swing that cut the night air. Jim slipped behind his guard and walloped the champ with two of his own. Baer slapped his glove against Braddock’s face to hold him back. Jim faked right, skipped left, hammering the champ with two more well-placed clouts. Helpless and outboxed, Baer slipped into a clinch. The champ slapped his glove against Braddock’s ruined ribs, eliciting a grunt.

  As the referee pulled the fighters apart, Baer cuffed Braddock on the chin with a desperate backhand. Braddock shook it off, found a gap in Baer’s armor and pounded him some more.

  The crowd was roaring, driven to a frenzy by conflicting emotions. Joy. Terror. Disbelief. Even the jaded members of the press seemed stunned.

  “Am I seeing what I’m seeing?” cried Sporty Lewis.

  “It’s a funeral, all right,” shouted the young reporter at his shoulder. “And Max Baer is the guest of honor.”

  But Lewis didn’t hear the kid’s words. He was already on his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs—just like everybody else.

  Soon the chant rolled down the aisles toward the ring, a tidal wave of sound.

  “Braddock! Braddock! Braddock!”

  Sporty Lewis joined the chorus.

  Through a haze of pain and confusion, Max Baer heard the chanting, the cheers. Gripped by a berserker rage, the champ charged Braddock, left swinging. His blows connected fast and hard—the last one below the belt. The leather glove sunk deep into Braddock’s gut. He folded up around the fist as the air shot out of his lungs in a hiss. Jim stumbled backward as the bell clanged, ending the round.

  Joe Gould was over the ropes, lunging at the champ before the sound of the bell had faded. “Why don’t you just kick him in the balls, you asshole!”

  Johnny McAvoy intercepted Gould and hauled him back to the ropes.