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commissioner had seen Braddock knock Griffiths out in two at the Garden and had ordered Gould to appear before him with Jimmy in tow.
    â€œHe must not be rushed along too rapidly. But with a little weight on him, I predict he’ll some day win the world’s heavyweight championship…”
    The eighty-three-year-old had grabbed Braddock’s hand and shook it vigorously that day. But that day had been a long time ago. Too long. Muldoon now rested in a windswept grave in Tarrytown, New York—as dead and buried as his golden prediction about Braddock’s future.
    Gould cleared his hoarse throat. “Jimmy, listen, your legs are heavy, the body lets you know…”
    â€œDon’t.”
    Gould’s insides twisted. He hated this. The commissioners were forcing him to KO his own fighter, but he knew they were right. He couldn’t put a washed-up boxer in the ring with a real contender—not if he wanted his man to come out alive. He had to get Jim to understand—
    â€œWe’re not fighting for the championship anymore. Hell, we’re not even fighting for cash. And now you don’t even tell me when your hand’s broken before going into a fight. I’m telling you , Jim, not them, I’m telling you, you’re too slow…It’s over.”
    Jim said nothing, so Gould kept talking. “You’d change things, sure, who wouldn’t, but sometimes you just can’t, you know, end of story.”
    Joe paused, waited for Jim to say something—to yell, scream, stamp his feet, give some kind of reaction. After a full silent minute, the manager asked, “You waiting to see how long I can keep quiet again?” Gould tried to smile, until Jim looked up. He finally got his boxer’s reaction. Jim’s cheeks were streaked with tears…
    â€œHey, you! Wanna earn a couple of dollars?”
    â€œYeah, sure, mister.”
    For a flashing moment, Gould had gone back to 1926, when he’d called over a lanky kid shadowboxing in a corner of Joe Jeannette’s gym.
    â€œListen, kid, how about you climb into that ring and spar a few with my fighter?”
    Gould’s top-ranked welterweight, Harry Galfund, was supposed to have knocked the kid’s block off—alittle pre-sale show for the Hoboken beer barons who’d offered to buy Galfund’s contract. Only Galfund couldn’t get near the kid, who kept buzzing around the ring like an annoying little bee, landing stinging jabs and crosses that made Gould’s welterweight fume.
    â€œYou got a manager, kid?” Gould had asked the kid at the end of the humiliating match.
    â€œNo. My brother does my business. He’s a plumber. Hey, aren’t you Joe Gould?”
    â€œYeah, and if your brother agrees, maybe I can take over the job…”
    Even now, seven years later, Gould didn’t regret taking on the job of managing Jimmy Braddock. Even now, as he looked into Jim’s devastated face.
    â€œGet me another one, Joe.”
    â€œJimmy—”
    â€œGot to have it. We’re down to our last buck.”
    â€œWhat’s done is done.”
    â€œNot always.”
    â€œNo. Not always…but this time. I’m sorry, Jimmy.”
    After all they’d been through together, from that Saturday in 1926 when they’d signed their first contract to getting a shot at the world title; from headlining Madison Square Garden to being jeered at in the stale air of this low-rent dump, Gould really was sorry. They’d weathered the cheers and boos, the praise and accusations in the best possible way—as the best of friends.
    That’s when it hit Gould. The boxing commissioners hadn’t just ended Jim’s career, they’d ended a seven-year partnership. Right now. Tonight. It was over. This really was good-bye.
    For a few moments, the manager couldn’t find his voice. “I’ll get the car,” he finally said.
    Jim didn’t