Cinderella Man by Marc Cerasini Page A

closed his eyes. Everything went away: the crowd’s hoots, the locker room stench, Mae’s weary sighs, Ben’s pulled gun, Jay’s silent tears, all the mistakes and missteps of the last four years. He reminded himself the “underdog” crown was no new hat. Then he opened his eyes.
    â€œI’m gonna get an egg cream.”
    â€œThere you go. That’s the spirit!”
    Â 
    The punch was a leather hammer to Braddock’s face. Jim moved for the counter, but Feldman blocked his drive.
    â€œC’mon Jimmy, let’s put on a show!”
    From the corner, Gould was sweating nearly as much as Braddock as he jabbed the air, mimicking every move his fighter made.
    â€œLet’s open him up for the folks!”
    Gould’s bulldog voice hadn’t yet gone hoarse from all the yelling, but it made no difference. The only things getting through to Braddock were the booming bursts of pain inflicted by Feldman’s targeted blows.
    Every boxer’s hits were different. Some felt like rata-tat tommy-gun bullets, others like beer bottles breaking over your face, cutting your nose and lips. Feldman’s jabs felt like he’d picked up a butcher’s cleaver—the strikes weren’t big, but they were solid and hard and hit squarely with practiced aim.
    The first round had been spent in feeling each otherout, but by the second, the young comer had rushed Braddock, layering him with jabs, hooks, uppercuts, forcing him to eat leather. Jim tried to counter, but he just couldn’t get a break. Everywhere Feldman threw, Jim was. Everywhere Braddock threw, Feldman wasn’t.
    Jim looked slow and awkward compared to his young opponent, who lightly danced around him on the canvas, pivoting and punching like some gangland ballerina. Suddenly, Feldman saw an opening, laid into Braddock’s ribs with a combination that sent Jimmy back into the ropes.
    The crowd began to boo, their jeers rising with the smoke through the armory’s musty air. In the corner, Gould bobbed and weaved, willing his fighter to break out, counter, find an opening—do anything but stand there and let himself get pounded into dog food.
    â€œYou got to be first, Jimmy! Don’t let him get set!”
    Jim saw a break in Feldman’s guard and threw a hard cross. He smashed Feldman’s jaw and sent him reeling. Jim pivoted in fast, cocked again for the finish, but Feldman lowered his head as Jim let go. Braddock’s lethal right connected with the top of Feldman’s skull. Abe’s helmet of a cranium refused to give, but Jimmy’s half-healed, double-taped hand did—
    Jim grimaced as the horrible crack of bone against bone echoed in his cauliflower ear. Knife-sharp blades of agony sliced through Jim’s fingers, and he fell into a clinch with Feldman. The bell ended the round but not the clinch, because Feldman was hurting too. The Ref stepped in to break it up, sending both fighters back to their corners.
    While the cutman toweled the sweat and blood fromBraddock’s face, Gould unlaced his glove. Even beneath the heavy tape job, the manager could see that Jim’s knuckles were out of alignment, and his fingers had swelled into purple sausages. Gould’s lightest touch made Jim shudder. His boxer could no longer hide the pain.
    â€œIt’s broken proper, Jimmy. I’m calling it.”
    Jim swallowed and thought of the purse, Mae, and the kids, the empty milk bottles. Mama, I want to eat too.
    â€œI can use my left.”
    Rounds were three minutes long. Breaks between them only one.
    â€œStay inside.” Joe quickly replaced the glove, laced it back up. “Don’t let him crowd you. Do what you can with the left.”
    The bell clanged and Jim was up and into the ring. Gould shook his head. “I wish he could find his goddamned left,” he muttered to the cutman, then the manager lifted his voice to the rafters. “Shut him down!”
    But