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Cinderella ManRound One
When the bell rings, you're in there to win.
— James J. Braddock,
as quoted by Peter Heller in In This Corner
Madison Square Garden
November 30, 1928
Boxing is a game of half steps and half inches, of timing,nerve, pain, endurance, and sometimes chance.Around the center ring of the Garden arena, nineteenthousand fight fans rose in a spiraling incline — too farto notice inches, too removed to notice chance. Mostspectators simply waited for one gladiator to murderthe other, in tonight's case, for the wiry Jim Braddockto be flattened by Gerald "Tuffy" Griffiths, the "Terrorfrom out West."
With round one's clang, the bulked-up, corn-fedGriffiths roared out of his corner like an unstoppablecyclone. Under the broiling hot lights, Braddock stoodfirm and watched him come. Tuffy had blown intotown claiming more than fifty consecutive wins, the last with a stunning first-round knockout. Seven-to-oneBraddock was just another Tuffy KO. A sacrificiallamb. Everyone knew it — the promoters, the oddsmakers,the sportswriters. Everyone knew it except Braddockhimself and Joe Gould, his excitable littleround-faced manager, punching the smoky air in Jim'scorner.
Whenever a reporter asked Gould why he thoughthis fighter was worth a plug nickel, he'd grab the man'slapels and bark, "What do you know about Braddock?What? Were you on that Jersey Hillside when Jimmywas just a scrawny teenager, forcing his older, bigger,golden gloves-winning brother to eat punch afterpunch? Did you watch him rise through one hundredamateur bouts to win his own pair of golden glovesagainst Frank Zavita — a giant stovemaker who'doutweighedhim by fifty-three pounds? Were you with methat day in Joe Jeannette's gym when I offered somekid, a total nobody, five dollars to get smacked aroundby my top-ranked welterweight, never expecting itwould be the kid, Jimmy Braddock, who'd do thesmacking?"
Tonight, like every night, Joe Gould stood in Braddock'scorner, close enough to see the half steps andhalf inches. Close enough to know that when TuffyGriffiths launched himself across the ring, Jim wasnever more ready.
Braddock's sharp, solid jab surprised the chargingGriffiths, sending the confident hulk back on his heels.The boxers advanced and retreated, hooking, blocking,and counterpunching, as they slipped and pivotedacross the springy canvas. When Griffiths saw anopening, he launched again. His shoulders rippled through a flurry of combinations — jabs, hooks, bodyshots. These same fistic flurries had taken out TonyMarullo in Chicago, Jon Anderson in Detroit, Jim Mahoneyin Sioux City, Jackie Williams in Davenport,even Mike McTigue, the former world's light heavyweightchampion.
Blood flowed and sweat streamed, soaking Jim'sbrow, burning his eyes. Blows felt like thunderclapsand lightning together, exposing Jim's guard, splittinghis head. But Braddock failed to hit the deck as Grif-fiths'othe r opponents had. Jim stayed on his feet,weathered the storm.
At ringside, reporters in straw boaters and fedorassat chomping cigars, their fingers pounding the stiffkeys of heavy typewriters. Every blow of the firstround's action was recorded, and nobody thought theNew Jersey boxer would last a second round.
But by round two, Braddock had timed his rival'srushes, and inside of a minute his power punchdetonated — Jim's golden right cross. Griffiths wentdown. The crowd rose up. A deafening din.
On three, the Terror was up again. The count didn'tstick.
By now Jim's adrenaline-rich world had turnedhyper-real. Colors exploded, sounds spiked, awarenesswas dagger sharp. Time stretched for Jim, as it does forall good fighters, slowing in the face of violence. Insidethe ropes, the slightest movement of his opponent'sarm swept bigger than an Atlantic wave.
Jim blotted out everything then: the wild screams ofthe crowd, the contemptuous stares of the sports writers,the shooting pain in his injured and taped ankle,the hysterical yells from his corner. All Braddock knew was this chance to put away the great Griffiths. Hecocked his right again, timed it just right, and let fly.Tuffy reeled.
"One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . ."
Glassy-eyed, Griffiths rose once more, shuttingdown the ref 's ten count.
Braddock was ready. He vaulted close and hurled anonstop bombardment to his opponent's face. Shouldermuscles, slick with sweat, were primed and loaded.Leather slammed forward at breakneck speed, thencame the jab, jab, cross, and Braddock's famous rightconnected for the last time, smashing into Griffiths'chin like an Irish freight train.
The fighter's jaw distended at an impossible angle,his eyes rolled back. Listing like a torpedoed ship, Griffithssank a third time to the canvas. On three, Tuffytried to stand with rubber legs. He staggered, andwithout another glove on him hit the deck for the lasttime.
"And from the great State of New Jersey, by technicalknockout, tonight's light heavyweight winner . . .Jim Braddock!"
The announcer's bellow brought the capacity crowdto its feet. The hometown boy had done it — and just astone's throw from the Hell's Kitchen tenement wherehe'd been born. Sweat dripping from his shock ofblack hair, Braddock pumped his fist in the smoky air,his bulky leather glove threatening to KO the Ga rden'shigh, steel-trussed ceiling. With an explosion of insanescreaming, thousands of fight-mad fans cheered the"Bulldog of Bergen."
Jim took in the hooting, hollering faces — clerks and tycoons alike sporting double-breasted suits and diamondtiepins; flappers and floozies with bobbed hairand fox furs. It was Friday night, the world was throwinga party, and Jersey Jim's victory was one more reasonto celebrate.
Griffiths was Jim's eighteenth knockout since he'dturned pro in 1926. His twenty-seventh win. And that'show Braddock wanted to see himself — as a winner — not a Catholic-school dropout or punk kid scraper, nota Western Union messenger, printer's devil, or silk millerrand boy. Tonight those former lives had sloughedoff Jim like dead skin ...
Cinderella Man. Copyright © by Marc Cerasini. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
