Read Online Cinderella Man by Marc Cerasini - Free Book Online

the promoter to shove the purse right up his ass when Johnston told Gould to wait outside the room for their decision. Ten minutes later, Johnston came out. Gould held his breath.
    â€œHe was no draw tonight,” said Johnston, walking with Gould down the dingy hallway. “And you watch. Next week the gate will be down by half. A fighter like that keeps people away.”
    Gould stopped at the door to the locker room. Braddock was inside showering off blood.
    â€œWe’re revoking his license, Joe,” said Johnston, just like that. “Whatever Braddock was gonna do in boxing, I guess he’s done it.”
    Â 
    Outside the Armory, a single dim lightbulb cast the parking lot in deep shadows. By now, all the jeering fight fans had cleared out and the paved lot was all but abandoned by a few isolated cars. The ref and the two boxing commissioners moved toward those vehicles and climbed inside. Johnston was the last to leave.
    With a bang, the amory’s weathered back door swung open, bouncing off the dirty brick wall. Jim Braddock strode swiftly across the parking lot, Joe Gould struggling to keep up.
    â€œMr. Johnston,” called Braddock. He stepped up to Johnston and planted himself.
    Johnston turned. “Jim.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    The big man frowned at Braddock then turned his eyes to Gould’s round face. “You didn’t tell him?”
    â€œYeah. I told him,” said Gould. “But he wanted to hear it from you.”
    Johnston’s eyes went back to Braddock. The boxer looked like a walking bruise, his right hand hanging by his side a sickly purple color, swelled and deformed and probably six months away from being able to open a pickle jar, let alone deliver a professional-level punch. One pathetic look from Johnston said it all. It’s over, Jimmy. Get it through your head.
    But Braddock refused. “I broke my hand, okay? You don’t see me crying about it. I don’t know what you got to complain about. We did that boondock circuit for you. I didn’t quit on you.” Braddock’s desperate look turned deadly serious. “I didn’t always lose. And I won’t always lose again.”
    Johnston said nothing.
    â€œI can still fight.”
    When Johnston spoke again, his bluster was gone, his voice quiet. “Go home.”
    â€œI can still fight.”
    â€œGo home to Mae and the kids, Jim.”
    Then Johnston climbed into his car and drove away. Braddock stood there and watched, wondering why the parking lot had suddenly turned into quicksand. For some reason, he couldn’t move his legs and his lungs had trouble taking in air.
    Then a firm hand grasped his shoulder. The usually garrulous Joe Gould guided Jim back inside without a word. The locker room was a stink hole, so Gould led his boxer to the armory’s arena, where the low house-lights cast long shadows over the empty ring. Gould sat Jim down amid the deserted bleachers and searched for a sturdy piece of wood. When he found a section of broken fence board, he sat next to Jim and began taping the board to Jim’s smashed and shattered hand.
    â€œWe’ll splint it with this until you get to the hospital,” said Gould.
    Jim said nothing, just stared at the floor.
    Gould tried to concentrate on the wrapping, but he couldn’t keep his mind from racing—or his mouth from running. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard,” he muttered. “We shouldn’t have gone to California that time…”
    Jim didn’t answer. He didn’t look up.
    Gould kept wrapping, and the memories started coming, crashing over him in waves…all the fights, all the crowds, all the dreams and hopes…
    â€œJoe Gould, you listen now, I am going to hold you responsible for the development of this fighter…”
    William Muldoon, 1928. His words had come with a sternly pointed finger. The distinguished, gray-haired boxing