I would like to say to the boxing fans and to the public at large that I will be in the best shape any athlete can possibly get into for the fight…. I know what this fight means tome…. And it will be some fight.
—James J. Braddock, 1935
I insist on having an ambulance at ringside. Jim is a nice fellow, and I wouldn’t want to see him die on my hands. He won’t last a round.
—Max Baer, 1935
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.
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 face. 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.