Cinderella Man by Marc Cerasini

Armory. A month after that, he’d taken on Jimmy Slattery, the “Buffalo Adonis,” in Madison Square Garden. An eight to five favorite, Slattery was a brilliant boxer—a flickering, flitting, dancing ghost whose opponents found impossible to tag. Amazing his fans and astonishing his critics, Braddock’s terrific right hand had caught and smashed the ghost by the end of the eighth round. By the ninth, Jim had KO’d him.
    Now, as Braddock prepared to face Feldman, he tried to keep that ninth-round Slattery KO in mind. Anything was better than remembering his disastrous match against Tommy Loughran.
    July 18, 1929, one year after Braddock had defeated Griffiths—and three months before the stock market sent the country’s economy from the canvas to the morgue—promoters had finally consented to let Braddock take a shot at the world light heavyweight title by fighting the champ. In fifteen harrowing rounds in Yankee Stadium, Tommy Loughran, one of the best boxers in the history of the game, had crushed Jim’s hopes for a world title.
    Braddock should have learned a lot from that humiliating match against Loughran, it just wasn’t a memory he was keen on recalling before he had to step into the ring one more time…
    â€œLet’s go,” said Gould.
    He’d finished double-taping Braddock’s bum right and lacing on his gloves. Now it was time for the stout little manager to lead his six-three boxer down the main aisle of the Mount Vernon Armory, past the wooden bleachers and into the ring.
    The crowd was an anemic crew compared to Jim’s Madison Square Garden days—and not just in volume. Leaner in face and shabbier in attire, there was a desperate look about them, as if the bets they’d made tonight were going to pay the grocery bills tomorrow. They sat murmuring beyond the ring’s hot lights, a sea of fedoras and caps sending up clouds of smoke.
    Closer to the action sat a small cadre of flashy gamblers with glossy-lipped companions. A long ringside table held tonight’s three official judges, the sports reporters leaning on their black typewriters, a few photographers with flashbulbs ready to pop, and a single radio commentator prattling into a heavy steel microphone—
    â€œJim Braddock, just five years ago, was considered first in line for the world championship. But in the last year, he’s lost ten fights and hasn’t managed a single KO.”
    Tell me something I don’t know , Jim muttered to himself as he climbed through the ropes and began to shadowbox in his corner. Gould massaged his shoulders, told him to relax.
    The hall’s low buzz began to rise, swelling into yelling and whistling. Braddock turned to see Abe Feldman making his way down the crowded aisle with a vigorous gait and high-spirited punches.
    â€œNow Braddock faces Abe Feldman,” the radio man continued, “an up-and-comer with seventeen wins, one draw, and one loss. In less than two years he has recorded nine KOs.”
    Jim froze. This was the “bum” Joe’s grandma could beat?
    Under his hands, Gould felt Jim’s shoulders go completely rigid. “Who whipped Latzo?” Gould barked to his boxer.
    â€œI did.” Jim’s voice was barely there.
    â€œWho KO’d Slattery in the ninth when everybody said he didn’t have a rainmaker’s chance in hell?!”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œThat’s right. But we should pucker our assholes over Feldman?”
    â€œNo.”
    The spectators clapped and whistled as Feldman climbed into the ring. Abe was the crowd favorite, young and golden like Braddock used to be with an untouched nose and two pretty ears. Jim felt his gloves begin to sink.
    â€œJimmy, Jimmy, look at me!” Gould grabbed Jim’s gloves, brought them back up. “Is there someplace else you’d rather be?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood. So what are you going to do?”
    Braddock