Cinderella Man (14 page)

Jim moved away from the barnyard chaos, jogged down a gentle slope, descending at last into the jumble called Hooverville. As Braddock wended his way among ramshackle huts of cardboard, he heard moans and coughs from within, mingling with the constant howl of the March wind.

Among the structures, shadows lengthened with the setting sun, the wavering glow of trash-can fires becoming the only source of light in the darkening park. Jim moved through legions of men, dressed in all manner of clothing from rags and tatters to soiled evening wear. They sprawled on old easy chairs that spit stuffing, ate at broken card tables, drank from vegetable cans or bottles.

Jim warily approached an old man hunched over a
roaring fire in an empty barrel—he was cooking something, though Braddock was not sure exactly what.

“Excuse me.”

The man turned, grinned wide enough to display missing teeth. Others emerged from the shadows of a leaning shanty. They eyed him, tipped their hats.

“Evening sir,” said the taller. “Offer you a bite to eat? It's fresh.”

The cook used a stick in his hand to prod the food, carbonized fur hide cracked to reveal pink flesh. Juice sputtered into the fire. Another man reached forward, waving a bottle under Braddock's nose. He smiled and waved the offer aside.

“I'm looking for a friend of mine.” Jim glanced around. A sea of faces watched him, eyes shining in the half-light. “Is there someone in charge?”

The man with the bottle chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “Ain't that the question of the day?”

Jim heard the clop of hooves. Two policemen rode by, flanking a groundskeeper herding a small group of sheep. The men's hungry eyes followed the woolly animals.

Jim moved deeper into the park. The shanties seemed to go on forever, their rude construction a mirror in reverse of the tall, stately skyscrapers of glass and granite that ran up Fifth Avenue. Coming upon a tent, Braddock peered inside to discover a makeshift hospital. The air stank of disease, and wet, tubercular coughs filled the dusk.

“Mike! Mike Wilson?” he called.

Sick, bleary eyes met his cry, but no reply, and Jim moved on. A man lay sprawled on the ground, his legs flung wide. Jim stepped over him and into the path of a
pair of running policemen, who yelled for him to move. He turned to see where they were heading and saw a knot of mounted cops in the distance, a swarm of men around the horses' legs. He smelled smoke, saw flames wafting up from a distant commotion. Shouts, howls, angry whinnies, and bleating sheep echoed across the lawn.

Another cop charged by Jim on horseback, nearly trampling him. Pistol drawn, arm raised, the officer looked as if he were leading the charge up San Juan Hill. Jim followed the cop toward the chaos, but before he could get to its center, he slammed into a mob, a solid wall of bodies.

“Mike Wilson!”

The tide ebbed and flowed. Braddock was swallowed up by the press of men. Smoke from the burning shanty in the distance blew over the mob in a dim, choking cloud. Finally, he broke free.

“Mike…Mike!”

“Jim…Over here.”

Braddock turned expectantly, but the man who'd called his name wasn't Mike—just another inhabitant of Hooverville, a once prosperous man now trapped in financial limbo. “Braddock, right? Seen you fight.”

Jim looked beyond the man, searching the milling throng, forced to blink against the poisonous fog.

“Frank Gibson. City National,” the man said. “Hope you don't want a loan.”

Braddock pushed past him, across sere grass. He dodged a wild-eyed unfortunate with blood streaming from his head, and finally arrived at the center of what had been a riot: the Sheep Meadow.

Horses and men had clashed together here just min
utes earlier. Police, on foot and horseback, had regained control and were now herding the men like sheep, away from the overturned wagons. Someone had set a shanty on fire and the yellow flames were throwing flickering light on moaning men who'd been struck down by nightsticks and were now dotting the ravaged lawn.

Two police on twitching horses pulled up near Jim. “We was just trying to clear the sheep, Sarge,” said the young one. “But these guys got more guts than a slaughterhouse. One started getting all political, shouting, angry—then they charged us.”

Jim closed his eyes, knew it was Mike. All his talk. All his angry talk.

“Jeez, that ain't no royal flush,” said the sergeant.

Jim began looking for Mike among the fallen on the grass, then near the overturned corral wagons. As the police freed the work horses from their harnesses, forced to shoot two with broken legs, vagrants and blue-uniformed men lifted the wagons to expose shattered bodies beneath.

“Some crazy nut tried to release the sheep,” one cop told another. “Horses got spooked, wagons went over. Starkers just didn't get out of the way in time.”

From beneath the wheels of one wagon, a man with a crushed leg howled. The men heaved together, lifting the heavy cart to free the trapped man—only to reveal a second in a pool of blood.

“Jesus,” said a cop, choking, seeing the corpse.

Sirens blared in the distance. Jim's eyes continued searching.

“Hey, Jim.” The voice was soft and filled with agony.

Jim turned and winced. Stepping over another mangled corpse, Jim knelt on the cold, gore-splashed ground. With his fight-scarred hand, Jim smoothed the hair from Mike Wilson's face, wiped blood from his cheeks with the sleeve of his coat.

The sun had set by now and there wasn't much light, but Jim was able to see that his old partner's body was badly out of alignment, his face was ghostly white. Still, when he saw Jim, a smile creased the corners of his blood-flecked lips.

“You win?” he rasped. Mike waited for the answer, his eyes glazed with pain but expectant too.

Jim nodded, leaned closer. “You're gonna be fine, Mike. You're gonna be okay.

Mike managed a weak nod, squinted up at Jim's face. “Yeah…I know it…”

Then the chill wind shifted, and the smoke from the burning shanty drifted over the two men, blotting out any remaining light.

 

Mike Wilson's funeral was a somber, frugal affair. Even with Jim and Mae's help, Sara could not afford a headstone to mark her husband's grave, not even a decent coffin. A cold, desolate potter's field near the Newark rail yards was his burial site. He was laid to rest in a shallow grave, in a cheap plywood casket, under a cloud-covered sky.

Mourners were sparse—it was a workday and Mike's few friends were pragmatic out of necessity for a day's wages. At any rate, death and tragedy were common coin these days and certainly no reason to break with grueling routine. So only Jim and Mae
Braddock, along with their children, stood with Sara and her baby girl as her husband's remains were lowered into the ground.

After Father Rorick's softly intoned benediction, Jim spoke haltingly of his friendship with Mike, of Mike's love for his wife, his family. Not said were the words that had blistered his thoughts the night Mike had died.
Stupid, pointless waste.
Jim knew what it was to feel crushed, to want to strike out, strike back, but like Ben, who'd pulled that gun on Jake at the docks last fall, Mike's righteous anger, his useless riot, had done little to help his wife, his child, and least of all himself.

Standing next to the man's grave, Jim didn't want to think about those things, so instead he thought of how sorry he was, how he wished he'd have known how bad things had gotten for his friend, how he wished Mike would've laid aside his pride just long enough to ask for help. And yet, Jim could not forget Mike's selflessness, either—how he risked his own spot at the docks to help Braddock hide his injured right hand, how Mike did double the work while Jim healed. Or the way Mike helped two strangers who were about to be evicted, just because he could.

Mae Braddock stood beside her husband, only half listening to his hesitant words. Her attention was too focused on Sara. The woman appeared to garner small comfort from the muttered sentiments, the prayers, the promises of a better life beyond this one. Instead, Sara silently gazed at the horizon, as if mulling over the lonely, husbandless days that stretched out ahead of her.

A tear dampened Mae's frozen cheek. Shed for Mike and his stricken mate—but also for herself. Some
part of her feared she was peering into a reflection of her own future. Maybe not today, or tomorrow—but one day, Jim could suffer the same fate. Trembling, Mae realized how completely lost she would be if she found herself in this same cemetery, watching her own husband being laid to rest for all eternity.

Madison Square Garden
March 24, 1935

Photographers circled the long draped table in the center of the vast arena, vulturelike. Flashbulbs popped, muted lightning. A hundred reporters waited patiently while Jim Braddock and Joe Gould mugged for the
cameras, good-naturedly sparring for the title of most photogenic grin. Jimmy Johnston sat next to Gould, ignoring the cameras.

Mae sat in the front row, ankles crossed, gloved hands folded demurely in her lap. She wore a new yellow dress and matching hat, her smile sincere though nervous.

The light show continued for a few moments, then one of Jimmy Johnston's boys waved the photographers back, and a man in the third row stood, pad and pencil in hand.

“Frank Essex,
Daily News
. You got a lot of reporters here—” Laughter and cheeky applause interrupted him. “You can see a lot of people are interested in this fight. You got anything to say to the fans, Jim?”

“I guess…” Braddock rubbed his chin. “I guess I'm grateful for the opportunity. Not everybody gets a second chance these days…” His eyes claimed Mae's. “I guess I got a lot to be grateful for.”

A craggy man stood next, nodded, shoved back the brim of his fedora. “Bob Johnston,
Boston Globe
. Two days ago we ran a story about you giving your relief money back. Can you tell our readers why?”

Jim nodded, sure of his answer. “I believe we live in a country that's great enough to give a man financial help when he's in trouble. I've had some good fortune so I thought I'd return it. Let them give it to somebody else who could use it, because they were good enough to give it to me.”

Reporters scribbled his words as fast as he spoke them. A few sneered at his cornball reply. Most nodded approvingly.

“Wilson Harper,
Associated Press
. What's the first
thing you're going to do if you make world champion, Jim?”

“Well, I guess I gotta go out and buy some pet turtles.”

The reporters paused in the scribbling, looked up, not sure they heard him right.

“Did you say turtles?”

Jim nodded, kicking up his New Jersey lilt. “When I was leaving the house I told my kids I was going to bring home the
title
. They thought I said
turtle
, so naturally I can't let them down.”

More laughter, and some reporters headed for the phone booths, certain they'd gotten the quote of the day.

“Get the turtle for his kids!” Joe Gould roared with laughter. “'Cause of his accent, see?”

“John Savage,
Blue Ribbon Sports
.”

Jim faced the new reporter. He stood in the second row, directly behind Mae. Braddock didn't like the gleam in the man's eye.

“Max Baer says he's worried he's going to kill you in the ring. What do you say?”

Mae could not help but look down at her hands. Jim noticed the gesture, then met the reporter's gaze with his own.

“Max Baer is the champion,” Braddock said in a loud, firm voice. “I'm looking forward to the fight.”

Enthusiastic cheers and whistles greeted his reply. Mae felt eyes on her. She looked up to see Jimmy Johnston, sitting at the long table at the front of the room, watching her.

“Jack Greenblatt,
Chicago Trib
,” a voice called from one of the last rows. “What changed, Jimmy? You couldn't win a fight for love or money. How do you explain your comeback?”

Jim found Mae's eyes. “Maybe I know what I'm fighting for this time around.”

“Yeah, what's that?”

Jim shifted in his chair, adjusted his tie. “I just got tired of the empty milk bottles, is all.”

Then the man seated right next to Mae Braddock stood. Instead of directing his question to the men at the table, he faced her.

“Sporty Lewis,
New York Herald
,” he began, touching the brim of his hat. “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 stared at the man, speechless. Lewis pressed his advantage. “Mrs. Braddock, are you scared for your husband's life?”

A photographer slipped in front of Mae. Crouching, he snapped a picture. The flashbulb exploded in her face, and a fire erupted in Jim's eyes. He leaned forward in his chair, ready to lunge for Sporty's throat.

“She's scared for Max Baer, is who she's scared for.”

Sporty turned toward the table, saw Jim glaring at him. Joe Gould rose, waved his arms like a referee. “Okay, boys, one more question and we'll ring the bell. Save some ink for the baseball scores.”

Reporters shouted for attention. Mae hid her expression under her hat until Sporty Lewis drifted away to file his own story. When she felt him go, she released a held breath. Her tiny fists clenched as she fought for control.

Jim answered the last question, his eyes seeking her out. But Mae refused to look up. In the years they'd been together, she'd never doubted her husband before.
She didn't want him seeing any doubts in her now, but she couldn't erase the fear from her eyes, or the terrible image of Sara Wilson standing alone in that potter's field, pondering her lonely future.

 

Fine, old wood polished to a sheen lined the interior of the Garden's exclusive boxing club. Stout leather chairs, sculpted end tables topped by Tiffany lamps, and inlaid card tables had been arranged strategically by the domestic staff. A pool table dominated one corner, its felt dappled by afternoon light filtering through open blinds in the tall windows.

Dominating it all was Jimmy Johnston's desk. The powerful promoter was usually surrounded by members of the New York boxing commission, his army of assistants, and a smattering of privileged hangers-on—gamblers, mobsters, members of the fourth estate. Now the only thing in the room besides Johnston was a movie projector, a roll of film spooled and ready.

Braddock entered the club, Joe Gould at his side. Cutting a swath through thick clouds of cigar smoke, Jim mused that he had come a long way since the day he'd passed the hat around, accepting charity from the men in this room—and from the man seated at the desk. It took all of Braddock's willpower to walk with his head erect, chin jutted, as he met a man who'd seen him stooped so low.

Joe Gould stepped in front of his fighter as he approached Johnston. “Said downstairs you wanted to see us.”

“Gould…Jim,” said Johnston with a wave of his cigar, not bothering to rise.

“Mr. Johnston.” Braddock's nod was respectful.

Johnston dug into the pile of newspapers at his arm, spread the early edition of the
Daily News
across his desk. He tapped the editorial page with a thick-fingered hand. “Right here, editorial says this fight is as good as murder. It goes on to say that everyone associated with it should be hauled into court and prosecuted afterwards.”

Joe Gould moved his jaws, but did not open his mouth.

Johnston shifted in his stuffed leather chair, crumpled the edge of the newspaper in his big hand. “Says the paper's getting all sorts of letters from people…people saying that you're their inspiration. Like you saved their lives or something.”

It was Jim's turn not to respond. Johnston appraised the fighter, then stood. He moved around the room, closing the blinds, blocking out the sunlight.

“You ask me, it's all crap,” Johnson continued. “My balls and my brains are for business, and this is business—got me?” He approached Jim, his face stopping inches from the fighter's. “You
will
know exactly what you're up against, and my attorney, Mr. Mills, will witness I have done everything in my power to warn you.”

A private door opened. A small man with a smaller moustache entered the club, followed by a young, wide-eyed stenographer, her scarlet lips parted in surprise at seeing Jim.

Braddock blinked, crossed his arms. “I saw the Carnera fight.”

Johnston ignored Braddock. He walked to the projector, threw the switch. A lackey killed the lights as the clacking machine began to roll the film spooled inside it.

“Carnera's height saved him,” said Johnston matter-of-factly as he watched the bright square of blank white light on the wall.

“He was knocked down twelve times,” argued Gould.

Numbers danced in the light.
6, 5, 4…

“Exactly,” Johnston replied. “It would have been worse if he was shorter. Baer had to punch
up
to hit him, which took a little power out of his swing.”

3, 2, 1…

Two blobs appeared. They flickered, danced—a blur. Johnston twisted the lens and the smudge became a picture.

“Baer versus Campbell,” said Johnston. The film showed a quick close-up of grinning lips, jaws chewing a mouthpiece, curly hair, gloves clapping in anticipation. “That's Frankie Campbell. Stand-up fighter. Knows how to take a punch.”

Quick jump to the ring. Campbell, head down, throwing haymakers at Baer.

Johnston faced Braddock. “His style familiar, Jim? Like looking in a mirror, huh?”

As Braddock watched, Joe Gould stepped forward. “He don't need to see this.”

“He'll see it or I'm calling off the fight,” Johnston warned.

The image jumped, Campbell stepped forward with as good a left jab as Braddock had ever seen, almost as good as his own. Baer easily blocked, then countered with his right. The punch—too fast to see—had a strange and awesome power. Absorbing it, Campbell spun, yet remained on his feet. Dazed, Campbell let
down his guard, and Baer's hammerlike fist smashed against the side of his unprotected head.

Campbell pitched to the canvas, bounced. Arms limp, legs wide, he gazed sightless at the roof. The referee kneeled over the stricken fighter and Baer's trainer pulled him away. Campbell's corner men scrambled under the ropes, rushed to the center of the ring.

“See that combination?” Johnston said, breaking the ominous silence. “Campbell didn't go down on the first one. Tough guy. It was the second punch that killed him—on the spot.”

Gould stepped up to Johnston, stared up at the big promoter's face. “Consider your ass fully covered. Now cut it off, will you—”

“No,” said Jim, surprising Gould and Johnston both. “Run it again.”

Johnston appraised Braddock, expression thoughtful. Then he switched the projector into reverse, and played the footage once more. As the death punch played again, lawyer Mills averted his eyes. His stenographer pouted her red lips and swallowed.

When the show was over, the film flapped in the projector until Johnston cut the power. The lackey restored the lights and then impassively opened the blinds.

Johnston returned to his desk and sat down. “The autopsy report said Campbell's brain was knocked loose from the supporting tissue.” He puffed his cigar, but the stogie had lost its heat. He held it out of his mouth, looked toward Gould for the usual light, but the little manager just glowered and kept his Zippo in his pocket. Johnston tossed the dead stogie on his desk.
“Remember Ernie Schaff? Stand-up fighter, nice guy. You lost one to him in 'thirty-one.”

“I remember him,” said Jim.

“Ernie took one of those on the chin from Baer. He was dead and didn't know it. Next fight, first jab put him to sleep forever. Detached brain, they said.”

Johnston shot a look at Gould. “Joe? No snappy comeback?”

Gould looked at his fighter. “Guess it ain't my skull the guy's going to try and stove in.”

The Garden promoter grinned. “Want to think about it?” He leaned back in his chair, waited for their reply.

Braddock slapped his palms down on Johnston's desk. The cold cigar bounced, rolled to the floor. Jim leaned in close.

“You think you're telling me something?” Braddock asked. “Sitting here with all the cash you need to make the right choice? You think triple shifts or working nights on the scaffolds ain't as likely to get a guy killed?”

Johnston shrank back in his chair, Jim leaned even closer.

“How many guys got killed the other night, just living in cardboard shacks to save on the rent money? Some guy just trying to feed his family. Only nobody figured out a way to make a buck seeing how
he
was gonna die.” Jim's lips curled, his smile fierce. “My profession.” He thrust a thumb into his chest. “I'm more fortunate. So I guess I've thought about it all I'm going to.” Braddock stood tall, his glare still pinning Johnston's back in his chair. The promoter looked away.

“All righty then.” Johnston slid a card across the
desk. With his duty discharged, his smile turned conciliatory, but Braddock thought he saw a cobra curled up behind the man's eyes.

“You guys eat here tonight,” Johnston said. “Take your wives. On me. We'll snap some pictures on your way out. You change your mind tomorrow, at least we get some good press out of it.”

Jim reached into his pocket, pulled out two bills and some loose change. He laid the money on the desk. Johnston looked down at it, the card waiting at the end of his fingers.

“It ain't a bribe,” said Braddock. Johnston looked up at him, puzzled.

“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.