Cinderella Man (18 page)

“Calm down, old man,” Baer said. “I'll let the fight go a few rounds.”

The ref pushed them apart. As he stepped back, Baer
hooked a sneaky left to Braddock's body. Though it was too weak and too low to hurt Jim's vulnerable ribs, the punch was followed by a right that sent Braddock's teeth rattling. Jim ignored the splinters of light, sent two soft lefts—return postcards—to Baer's cranium. Then Braddock walloped his opponent with a third left, this one with real muscle behind it.

Baer didn't appear to feel the punch, though he came up short with a counter tossed at Braddock's head. As Madcap Maxie danced away, the bell clanged to end the round.

The champ had clearly lost the round on points, yet he strolled casually to his corner with an air of smug superiority, still confident that he could end this fight at any time with one deadly punch.

Meanwhile, the crowd's raucous cheers rang heaven's doorbell. Even the members of the first estate, who figured to a man that the fight would be over by now, were stunned by Braddock's driving performance. Sporty Lewis outwardly speculated how many minutes into the second round Braddock would remain alive, but he removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie while he talked, secretly realizing, after a look at Braddock's focused control, that he was in for a long night in the summer heat.

At the ropes, Gould met Jim with a ready grin. “Did you see that look on Baer's face when ya clocked 'im?” the little manager cried.

Braddock spit out his mouthpiece, nodded. “Yeah. He was
grinning
.”

“So use that magic left of yours to wipe that smirk off his goddamn face.”

Jim glanced across the canvas expanse, to see Ancil giving it to Baer. Once again, Baer waved his manager away, spoke words broad enough to lip read: “I'll kill him when I'm ready.”

Doc Robb checked Braddock's face. Like any good cutman, he was prepared to stem any blood flow before it limited Braddock's vision. Ray slipped Jim a towel, passed him some water. Finally, Gould leaned in.

Decades of experience had taught Joe the difference between a good corner man and a lousy one. The lousy one crammed the boxer's head full of stuff he'd never remember. The good one gave his fighter one usable tactic between each round—just one decent tip his guy could use to maybe turn the fight around.

“Your left, Jimmy,” Gould barked into Braddock's cauliflower ear. “Remember your left.”

The bell rang—

ROUND 2

The audience couldn't believe their eyes when Braddock came out swinging at the sound of the bell. Reporting from ringside, even Ford Bond seemed perplexed by this unforeseen turn of events.

“A fight that no one expected to go one round has gone two,” cried Bond. “But only because Max Baer is toying with Braddock—there is no other word for it. He's hardly thrown a punch and is laughing at Braddock's every strike.”

Jim delivered a long left to the champ's smirking face, but missed with his follow-up and Baer snickered. They traded lefts, then Baer ripped a hard right to
Braddock's body. Jimmy replied with three straight rights, bashing the sneer off Maxie's mug.

Eyes flashing with fury, Baer rushed Braddock—his first charge of the match—but Braddock stopped him abruptly with an uppercut at close quarters that snapped Baer's head back. He roared, coming back with a combination, but the assault was ill-timed and glanced off Braddock's head without doing damage. Jim doubled down, presenting Baer with two straight lefts to the head, two crushing rights to his jaw.

“Look at Braddock take those belts and come back!” Ford Bond cried. “Where did he get that left he's feeding Baer?”

Max stepped back, bought time by grooming himself. He wiped his gloves on the back of his trunks after landing a punch as if he didn't want Braddock's sweat or blood to soil the leather. While Baer preened, Jim stalked, then landed a stiff, whip-fast jab that put a moment's wobble in Baer's muscular legs.

Jim tried to press his advantage, but Baer rushed him, distracting his opponent with a wildly swinging left while smashing his lethal right into Jim's bum ribs. Braddock reeled, the power of Max's blow flattening his lungs.

Gasping for air, Braddock struggled to counter with a flurry of punches that ended when they fell into a clinch.

“The champ has clearly hurt the challenger,” said Ford Bond. “Braddock is wobbling, appears ready to drop…”

The crowd roared their disapproval.

Inside the hug, Baer managed a bull's-eye to the ribs again. Braddock's mouth gaped like a beached fish.

“That the right spot, old man?”

Jim knew every boxer's hits were different. Some fired in hard, penetrating bullets that dug into your muscles, others threw haymakers that broke like boulders against your head. Max Baer's punch felt like a leather-covered sledgehammer, like the gore-covered mallet he'd used to bash the skulls of cattle in his father's slaughterhouse.

The bell sounded. McAvoy separated the fighters. Baer gave Braddock a patronizing pat on the back as they moved to their corners.

Braddock collapsed onto his stool. Gould pulled on the waistband of the blue trunks to help Jim breathe. Doc Robb treated his cuts. Ray poured water into his mouth, but Jim gagged and coughed it up.

“Air,” he gasped.

Jim's crew hovered over him until the warning buzzer sounded. Gould examined his ribs. “They ain't busted. Not yet.”

Across the ring, Baer was mugging for the reporters, acting like he was on crutches. His thumb jerked in Braddock's direction. Sporty Lewis and the other ringside sportswriters guffawed.

“What's with the clowning around?” Ray asked Joe.

“Ah, he just wants to put on a good show for the rubes,” Gould replied. “All Hollywood, that Maxie.”

Jim took in the dancing bear act, knew he himself had thought like that once, back when he only worried about giving the crowd a good thrill, handing them the big knockout they were salivating to see. He'd risk a victory on points just to get a dramatic finish—just to hear those cheers, win the approval of the promoters, get that next headliner's spot.

Watching Baer's antics, Braddock realized that pleasing the crowd didn't matter to him anymore. Jim wasn't boxing to thrill reporters, please promoters, or wow the crowd. He was boxing for his family's future. He wasn't even fighting Baer. He was fighting to beat back the thing that had beaten him.

Suddenly, the bell sounded. One minute was up. Three minutes to go.

ROUND 3

Despite his battered condition, Braddock burst out of his corner, leather flying, for the third time. He pummeled Baer's head while the champ battered Braddock's torso.

“That's the way, Jimmy, get him good.” Gould was at the ropes, punching the air, yelling himself hoarse. It was all he could do to help his fighter now, so Joe kept up the raspy tirade.

Jim delivered two lefts to Baer's face, then a left and right combination to the skull. Baer drove his own left into Braddock's midsection, the glove sunk muscle deep. Gould winced, knowing that if Baer'd had a real left, Braddock might have tumbled. But Maxie was no all-around fighter—he was a heavy hitter with a bone-crunching right and a left that was weak as hospital coffee. As Gould expected, Braddock shrugged it off.

Dancing backward, Braddock flecked Baer's face with double long-lefts, but Jim's fatal right arrived too high to connect and Gould cursed.

“Lower the swing, Jim,” cried Gould.

Meanwhile, Baer stepped around Braddock's defense and continued to pound his battered midsection
with both hands. Soft leather slapped against hard muscle, and Gould winced when he saw it. Some of Baer's stomach smashes were too close to the danger zone, and Joe angrily called for Baer to keep his punches up.

Jim tried to counter with a combination, but Baer easily blocked. Then Braddock stung him with a right to the jaw, the sound reaching Gould's ears over the din of the crowd. Baer snarled like a beast, eyes wild, nostrils flaring.

“Protect yourself, Jimmy!” Gould warned—too late. Baer slammed Braddock's body with another stiff right. The punch was visibly low and the referee moved in, warning Baer to keep his fists up.

Gould panicked when he saw Braddock dropping his guard. Baer saw it too. Max had smelled Jim's blood and now he wanted to taste it. Before Gould could warn his fighter what was coming, it came.

Baer slammed Jim's temple with a vicious left. Braddock's knees wobbled and Gould froze in dread. Baer skipped across the canvas, making faces and aping Jim's obvious agony.

Joe considered throwing in the towel just then. He turned toward Ray, but the corner man yanked the cloth out of reach.

“Give 'em a chance, Joe,” Ray said.

“Easy for you,” Gould replied. “You don't have to face Mrs. Braddock.”

A few seconds later, Jim was straightening without reaching for the ropes, and Gould breathed easier.

A bemused Baer rubbed his gloves on his trunks, flicked his nose and charged. This time it was Braddock who scored—a long right, then a left jab that
made Max's backward-lurching head look like a punching bag.

“That's right, that's the way!” yelled Gould bouncing up and down as Ray snapped his towel in the air.

When the bell rang, the audience leaped to their feet.

ROUND 4

The opening bell's clang had barely faded before Baer and Braddock were both out of their corners, standing toe to toe, trading left jabs to the head. Baer's were an exercise in futility. He'd throw and throw and throw again, but Jim's half steps made Maxie miss by inches. Braddock's footwork was never better, and most of his own blows hit home.

In desperation Baer shifted his attack, going for the torso. After several heavy smashes, he was gratified to see a red bruise appear on Braddock's left ribs. As Jim sucked air, Baer was certain every breath produced lancing agony for his opponent.

To buy time, Braddock drove a volley of sharp left jabs to Baer's head, but the champ wasn't going to let that continue. He draped his heavy arms over Braddock in a clinch. This time Baer didn't wisecrack; he needed the wind just to remain standing.

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?!”