Cinderella Man Page 4
One car’s door suddenly swung open. A mother climbed out, pushing her two little boys in front of her. Bleary-eyed, they stumbled across the dirt to the side of the nearest building and began to urinate against its wall.
Jim walked on.
He’d come a long way from the stately, old neighborhood north of the city, where large frame and brick houses sat comfortably spaced and attractively landscaped. Here on the southeast edge of the business district, not far from the Port of Newark, cracked concrete sidewalks lined long stretches of store windows, every one boarded up. Buildings were a monotonous brown and gray, many of them crumbling with paint peeling, windows broken, gutters hanging loose because no one had the money to fix them. Soot and coal dust dirtied streets that the city could no longer afford to clean. Garbage cans lay on their sides, rummaged through, empty. These days, people threw almost nothing away, and whenever anyone did, another worse-off soul would find a use for it. Just like that, it was out of the can before a truck could haul it away.
Of the twenty-nine thousand factories in the New York City area, ten thousand had shut down. And the plight was no better across the river. By now, the Depression had gone well beyond factory workers. College graduates, professional men, people who’d thought of themselves as middle class, were out of work too. Hundreds of brokers and bankers had been fired, small businesses had gone bust, a third of the doctors in Brooklyn had been forced to close their practices, and six out of seven architects were now idle.
Men in four-year-old suits and frayed ties wandered like ghosts, nowhere to go, glad to clean a yard to make a dollar. Teachers, lawyers, accountants, businessmen were still leaving home every morning with empty attaché cases, ashamed to admit they had no work. Others sat on benches and bus stops in tattered coats, heads bowed like defeated rag dolls.
Everywhere Jim looked, he saw part of the army of unemployed, selling apples on Manhattan street corners, standing on line at employment offices from morning till night, waiting at bakery back doors for day-old bread.
Black Tuesday, the Crash, the worst day in stock market history, the end of the Roaring Twenties, the beginning of the Great Depression, whatever they wanted to call October 29, 1929, didn’t matter. What mattered was the country had been hit by a thousand-foot tidal wave, smashed by the power punch of a raging financial Goliath. In one day, sixteen million shares of stock had been dumped and the country lost more capital than it had spent in all of World War I. The entire week’s losses added up to 30 billion dollars, ten times more than the annual budget of the federal government.
Much of the nation was on its knees, knocked into a stunned stupor. At first, people told themselves it would all be over in a month or two, then a year or two. At first, Jim believed it too, even though he’d been among the group worst hit—short-run investors, small guys who believed that everyone could be rich. In a matter of hours, his stock investments had gone to zero. Then his bank failed, wiping out much of the money he’d put there. Finally, his taxicab company went under, but not before he’d sunk even more money into it. By 1932, the Braddocks had lost every cent of the $30,000 Jim had earned during his rise in the ring. Jim had borrowed from friends and relatives, but nobody was in any better shape. The Braddocks were only one drop in a desolate ocean of families who’d lost their homes, their life savings, and in some cases even more.
Within days of the Crash, the president of the Country Trust Savings Bank had taken a pistol from the teller’s cage at work, returned to his town house on West Twelfth Street, and blown his brains out. Everyone had heard stories like that, of men jumping out of windows. Less talked about were the ones who went into insane asylums and nursing homes, the ones who’d broke down mentally and physically, as well as financially. Others took their lives hoping to at least leave their wives and children some insurance money.
Fathers deserted their families, ashamed at not being able to support them, feeling what was happening to them was a consequence of their own personal failure. They’d just wandered off in disgrace.
The newspapers talked about overspeculation being the cause, how everyone had ignored the signs of economic downturn in the months before—rising unemployment, the fall off in automobile sales and department store revenues, farms failing in record numbers. The market just climbed higher and higher. Then the waves of panic hit, brokers ruthlessly unloaded margin accounts, banks withdrew their funds, and the market completely collapsed.
New York’s dazzling lights and frolicking revelers of the Twenties gradually faded, a vanishing mirage. Appearing in its place was a gray, raggedy throng of desperate down-and-outers rounding the block at relief offices, waiting on breadlines, freezing on street corners, their faces creased with want, looking everywhere for work and finding none. Hungry, empty, hopeless, defeated.
Jim’s only hope had been boxing. Although the prizes had gone down with the ticket prices, prizefighting was still a popular sport, mainly because it was a relatively cheap good time and a side bet might double a fan’s pocket. But after the crash, Jim’s career had gone into a tailspin. He’d racked up more losses than wins in 1930, ’31, ’32…and, thus far, 1933 wasn’t bucking that trend. As his fight record sank, he had a harder time getting on decent cards. Jimmy Johnston had Gould touring him on a low-rent circuit, Cauliflower Alley, and for over a year, Jim had been forced to take on any sort of work he could find.
With so many factories closed, the docks had been his best shot. Port Newark, on Newark Bay, was one of the country’s largest cargo ports. Inside of thirty years it had been transformed from a desolate marsh to a seaport terminal with twelve thousand feet of docks including space for large warehouses and twenty freight steamers. Shipments were constantly being unloaded here and then transferred to the many railroads and truck lines that ran through the area. So every morning before dawn, Jim rose and hiked down to the water, hoping to beat the odds among a horde of others just as desperate for work.
Shoving his cold hands into his pockets, Jim moved across a gravel lot and toward the small group of men already waiting by the locked gate of the high fence. The weather was cold for this time of year, even colder by the water, but the two-hour wait in the predawn mist earned him a valuable spot at the front of the swelling crowd.
When dawn finally hit Newark Bay, New York Bay, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond, Jim barely noticed. The sky was so overcast little sunlight could penetrate the gloomy mist. To the north, the Hudson remained slate gray under cement clouds, and across its churning currents, the great skyscrapers of Manhattan looked more like tombstones in a crowded cemetery.
The sudden rattling of metal drew Jim’s attention to the gate. The gaunt, middle-aged foreman stood on the other side. Jim straightened and glanced around at the murmuring crowd. Most of the men were huddled against the biting, wet chill, hands buried deep in the pockets of their old coats, faces stoned by sleeplessness. There were more than usual today, sixty at least.
With his clipboard under an arm, the foreman finished fumbling with the lock, then pulled the gate open and stepped up to the waiting swarm of unemployed. This man had the power over life and death, the power to change the fortunes of Jim and his family—of every man here.
“I need nine men and nine men only.”
The jostling began immediately. Me! Pick me!
“One, two, three…” The foreman was pointing out men far too fast. “Six, seven, eight…”
Jim could feel the panic around him, the fear, as the foreman’s joyless expression continued to scan the crowd. Me! Pick me! Jim prodded his way closer, trying to be seen.
“Nine.”
Jim closed his eyes. All that waiting, hours in the cold, and it was over in less than thirty seconds. He hadn’t been chosen.
“I been here since four.”
Jim opened his eyes. The crowd was dispersing around him, men were already heading off to look for work elsewhere. One man from the crowd had stepped up to complain. Jim recognized him from a short chat they’
d had a few weeks before. His name was Ben and he had remembered Jim from one of his old boxing matches in Jersey City, in the days when Jim had had no trouble rolling over opponents. Like Jim, Ben had a wife and three kids—two were sick.
“Sorry brother,” the foreman told Ben, turning away. “Luck of the draw.”
Ben’s gun came out of nowhere. A pocket, a waistband, Jim didn’t know, but everyone knew where Ben’s revolver was aimed—point-blank at the foreman’s heart.
“I was here first.” Ben’s eyes were wild, desperate. The hand that held the gun began shaking. The foreman stared at it and began shaking too.
“What about it?” Ben asked.
The foreman lifted his eyes from the gun to Ben’s face. Time went perfectly still, then the foreman spoke, “My mistake, pal. I need ten.”
Still stunned, Jim’s gaze followed Ben as he stepped through the gate. Jim wanted to look away, but just couldn’t, simply watched and waited without breathing. Then it happened. Ben had barely put the gun back into his pocket when a few of the guys inside jumped him, wrestled him to the ground.
It was over for Ben now, thought Jim. Prison. How could the man help his wife and kids now? How?
Jim’s eyes looked away, down to the broken concrete. Beneath his ratty shoes, he saw the front page of today’s paper. The two-inch headline was no news to him:
UNEMPLOYED REACHES 15,000,000
“No shifts today, Dad?”
Hours later, Jim had finally returned to his tenement courtyard to find his eight-year-old, Howard, playing on the fire escape landing above the basement steps. One in four working people were now unemployed in America. One in four. But an eight-year-old didn’t need to know that. An eight-year-old couldn’t even fathom 15 million.
Giving his son a smile, Jim shrugged. Win some, lose some, he tried to say, even though he’d lost for hours, walking and hitching rides for miles, looking for work everywhere, finding it nowhere—not in Newark, Bayonne, or Jersey City.
“What’re you doing, son?” The boy appeared to be jumping on a mattress spring.
“I’m being good,” answered Howard. “I’m being quiet. I’m being hayve.”
Jim recognized Mae’s don’t-mess-with-me warning list—which told him something was up. He raised an eyebrow. “Good?” he asked, but before he could get more out of him, a tiny wide-eyed rocket fired itself down the alley and into his arms.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
Rosy hugged her father’s neck, then the six-year-old grinned brighter than Times Square’s lights used to shine.
“What, sweetheart?”
“Jay stole!”
With a sigh, Jim carried Rosy down the steps and into their basement apartment. He found Mae standing over their eldest. Jay’s ten-year-old face was red. He was staring at the floor.
Jim set his daughter down. “What’s this all about?”
The little girl pointed at the table with a proud tattletale grin. “See? It’s a salami!”
Mae replied sharply. “Your brother is in enough trouble without you telling, young lady.”
Jim looked questioningly. Mae pointed. It was a salami, all right, and it was a beauty, fat and marbled and laced with garlic, and the way Mae slivered the meat these days, Jim figured it could surrender enough slices to feed the whole Braddock family for a week.
“From the butcher’s,” said Mae. “He won’t say a word about it, will you Jay?”
Mae’s stare moved from her son’s furious face to Jim’s questioning eyes. She held her husband’s gaze—a silent handoff.
“Okay,” said Jim. “Pick it up. Let’s go.”
For the first time, Jay raised his eyes to look at his father. The boy’s expression was pleading, desperate, angry—and full of fear. Don’t make me do this. Can’t you see we need it? Can’t you?
“Right now!”
The front door banged open. Jim was on his way, his son, salami in hand, dragging slowly behind. As Jim strode down the street, he said nothing. Jay followed on his heels, eyes downcast. When they reached the butcher, Jim opened the door, waved his boy inside.
A quick explanation, an apology, and the stolen property was presented to the victim. The butcher glanced from son to father. Braddock met the man’s eyes. I am not raising my son to be a thief.
No more words were needed. The butcher nodded approvingly, returned the fat, greasy salami to his meat case, then Jim and Jay left the shop. The two walked down the street, side by side. The embarrassment had been endured, the lesson was now over, and Jim couldn’t help recalling his own boyhood lessons at the hands of his stern father—after one of those lessons, Jim usually couldn’t sit down for hours.
Joseph Braddock was a massive figure of a man, with snow white hair and a thick Irish brogue. He believed in God, hard work, and doing right by your fellow man, and he’d instilled these lessons in every one of his sons.
Once, before one of Jimmy’s fights, his dad had said, “May the best man win.” The words weren’t really about winning. They were about being a certain kind of man—the kind who kept his dignity by fighting fair and respecting the rules. In Joseph Braddock’s view, only this kind of man truly deserved to win, to be admired, to be hailed a winner. Jim agreed. Being the best kind of man was not an easy thing, but it was the most important thing. His father had instilled that in him. Now it was Jim’s turn to do the same for his own son.
Jim walked beside his ten-year-old in silence, waiting, giving his boy time. Jay was a quiet kid, just like his father, and Jim knew why: It wasn’t always easy to find the right words.
“Marty Johnson,” Jay finally blurted out after a few blocks. “Marty Johnson had to go away to Delaware and live with his uncle.”
Jim frowned, but said nothing.
“His parents didn’t have enough money for them to eat,” Jay added.
Jim stopped on the street, turned toward his son. The boy’s anger was gone now. The shame and desperation were gone too. Only one thing was left in that young face…the same thing Jim felt earlier today, and almost every day since the Crash.
“You got scared,” Jim told his boy. “I can understand it. But we don’t steal. No matter what happens. Not ever. Got me?”
Jay swallowed, managed a nod.
“Are you giving me your word?” asked Jim.
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“I promise.”
“Things aren’t so good right now, Jay, you’re right. But Daddy’s doing his best.” Jim touched his son’s cheek. Soon enough, the boy’s skin wouldn’t be peach smooth anymore, thought Jim, he’d be shaving—he’d be a young man. Now was the time to make the boy understand what kind of man his father wanted him to be.
“There’s a lot of other people a lot less fortunate than us. And if you take something, somebody else goes without.” Jim crouched down so he could look at his ten-year-old eye to eye. “Here’s my word, good as wheat in the bin. We’re never going to send you away, son.”
Jay’s small lips were already trembling, his eyes desperate. You promise?
“I promise,” said Jim.
Finally, the tears came, spilling from the little boy’s eyes. Jim pulled Jay into his arms. He held onto his child as tight as he could.
ROUND FOUR
A man hanging on the ropes in a helpless state, with his toes off the ground, shall be considered down.
—The Queensbury Rules,
Number 5
Mount Vernon, New York
September 23, 1933
The locker room was a dump. Bins with broken doors, a filthy concrete floor, half-plugged drains, and rank air polluted with the charming smells of dried sweat and stale urine.
“He’s a slow guy. He plants himself. Keep him in the middle. And dance around him. You know what to do. Guy’s a bum.”
The weary routine had begun. Joe Gould, sporting one of his usual dapper-looking fawn-colored suits, taped up Jim’s hands while trying to brace his spirits.
“I know two bits will buy a guy a seat,” Jim muttered, “a guy who gets to watch you bleed and call you a bum. I know that because he’s a paying customer, I have to take it from him.”
“I see. Well. Pardon me. Let me restate.” Gould narrowed his eyes on Braddock. “Mr. Abraham Feldman is a novice fighter whose ass you should gently kick until it’s humped up between his shoulders. If, of course, it doesn’t offend your overly sensitive nature.”
Gould finished taping Jim’s left, dropped it and grabbed the right. Jim winced. Gould looked down. He played with the hand. Jim winced again.
“This break’s still a couple weeks away,” said Gould, examining Braddock’s knuckles. “Why didn’t you tell me, Jim?”
Jim didn’t look up from the grimy floor.
Back in March, Braddock had gone ahead with a Philadelphia bout against Al Ettore, even though his badly hurt hand hadn’t completely healed from his January fight with Hans Birkie. Ettore would have been a hard man to box even with a good hand. Trying to do it with a bum paw made Jimmy look like he had no business being in the ring. By the fourth round, the referee had halted the fight.
Still Braddock wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. His family badly needed the purses, so he’d gone up against Al Stillman in St. Louis. In the ninth round, Jim laid a terrific right to the young man’s jaw. Braddock won the match, but had reinjured his hand.
Braddock kept fighting: Martin Levandowski in April, Al Stillman again in May, Les Kennedy in June, and Chester Matan in July. For those last battles, he’d managed to use painkillers, smashing the right again and again, never giving it enough time to fully heal.