Jim couldnât. His opponent rushed him, raining solid punches in stinging one-two rhythms. Jim tried to counter, but Gould was rightâhe just didnât have a left-hand punch. Worse, his right couldnât even block anymore, and his boxing shoes felt like theyâd been dipped in lead. As Feldman landed blow after blow, Braddock was practically standing still, a defenseless six-three bag of sand for Feldman to punch at will.
Time usually slowed for Jim under the broiling hot lights, but now it was hurtling forward in a violent frenzy, a breakneck merry-go-round that turned Feldman into a blur of unpredictable movement.
Desperate, Braddock began to throw out his left again and again. His wild jabs missed, but he managedto send one serious uppercut to Feldmanâs chin. Abe was still hurting from the right cross Braddock had fed him in the last round, and the uppercut did some damage.
Both boxers fell into another clinch. They swayed in a drunken dance, back and forth across the canvas, and the gallery began to jeer again, hurling insults and catcalls.
âPay attention!â Gould shouted.
The faces in the irate crowd were a whirling blur in Jimâs pain-racked visionâ
âYou stink!â
âGo home!â
âNo goodââ
Suddenly Jim decided maybe he had one more right cross in him.
âBum!â
Yeah , thought Jim, one more â
Jim cocked back and let fly. He struck Feldman on the sweet spot, and the boxer reeled, but beneath Jimâs glove, beneath his tape, his broken hand had completely shattered.
As Jim braced against white-hot convulsive spasms, Feldman counterpunched with a vicious right. Jimâs head snapped back. He staggered, pulling Feldman into yet another pitiful clinch, holding onto his opponent like the intoxicated host of a party, desperately trying not to pass out. Feldman didnât look much better. His arms wrapped around Braddock, and once again the two waltzed across the canvas.
Gould barely heard the bell over the booing.
Â
âAn embarrassment! Thatâs what it was. An embarrassment.â
Gritting his teeth, Joe Gould forced himself to stand quietly and listen to the rantings of Jimmy Johnston, the big-suit promoter whose balls heâd squeezed to get Braddock that Tuffy Griffiths shot, not to mention the world title match against Tommy Loughran in Yankee Stadium.
Barely thirty minutes ago, the referee had stopped the fight. Announcing âenough was enough,â heâd declared it a âno contest,â and threw any further rulings into the hands of the state boxing commissioners, which meant Joe Gouldâs worst-case scenario had just come true.
âWhereâs the purse?â asked Gould, trying like hell to hold his temper in front of this makeshift tribunal, which included Johnston, the ref from tonightâs bout, and two state commissioners whoâd been in the audience.
âI wouldnât have to tell you that if you gave a shit about your fighter,â Johnston said.
Sitting behind the table with his fellow commissioners, Johnston sucked on his cigar and blew out a fat white puff, like Zeus making clouds for the mortals below him. It joined the smoke already hanging in the armoryâs backroom office. Mount Olympus on the cheap.
âOkay,â said Gould. Time to beg. He opened his fists, held his palms to the gods. âSo heâs fighting hurt. Maybe you got fighters who can afford to rest a month between fights.â
âChrist, he hardly gets a punch in anymore. Fights getting stopped by refereesâ¦Heâs pathetic.â
Gould closed his open palms, made two angry fists. Johnston had always thought Braddock was a bum, that heâd never amount to much. Now the prick had his validation. With his own eyes, Johnston had witnessed the lowest moment in Jimâs career. That still didnât give him the right to call his friend pathetic. Gould was about to tell
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