The Bruiser (3 page)

By early August, Tully had rewritten the conclusion. As one reporter described it,

This was not the happy ending Greenberg wanted, and, with yet another ending, Tully delivered the completed manuscript that September.
The Bruiser
was set for release later in the fall. Mencken wrote, “If I were still editor of
The American Mercury
, your description of that prize fight would already be in type.” Returning to the bout in another letter, he concluded, “it is one of the best things anybody has ever done.” Greenberg was equally optimistic and asked for a proposal for Tully's next book. A month later, Greenberg's mood darkened. He complained that advanced sales for
The Bruiser
were poor, citing resistance from booksellers and women to boxing novels. Tully, never known for patience with his publishers, could hardly be blamed for being irritated. Greenberg was well aware that he was publishing a boxing novel and pronouncing a book a failure before a single review appeared was premature at best.

With his mood still soured by Greenberg's dire forecast about
The Bruiser
, Tully's career hit bottom when a letter from Bennett Cerf, the publisher of The Modern Library, landed on his desk with a thud. Cerf declined to reprint any of Tully's earlier books, noting that “I have done some quiet checking up on the sale of these books in the last few years, however, and am sorry to say that I find the demand, in New York at least, is practically nil.” All hope rested with
The Bruiser
.

Novelists who choose sports as a central theme face a common pitfall. If, at the novel's conclusion, the protagonist
proves the odds surmountable and knocks out his opponent or hits a home run with two outs in the ninth, most readers will leave thinking they've just finished a boilerplate boy's book. If the hero lands on the canvas or strikes out at the book's conclusion, readers will understandably feel let down. The best sports novels and films wisely avoid this trap, from the baseball books
Blue Ruin
by Brendan Boyd and
Shoeless Shoe
by W. P. Kinsella to such films as John Sayles's
Eight Men Out
and Martin Scorsese's
Raging Bull
. Each succeeds by not aligning its story with a particular contest.

The Bruiser
follows Shane Rory from his days as a road kid, through his unsteady ascent up the boxing ranks, and culminates in his title fight for the heavyweight championship. With the book so structured, Tully's problems with the ending were inevitable. His solution was to have Shane Rory win the title fight and hand over the crown to a black boxer and fellow road kid whose route to the top would have otherwise been blocked by a color line. It was a happy ending to be sure but with a twist. If the conclusion of
The Bruiser
seems a bit pat, the thirty-one chapters which precede it are not. Shane Rory, like Jim Tully was an accidental fighter. He tried boxing, won his fight, and, “The course of his life changed. He was a combination road kid and wandering fighter.”

The description of road kid and fighter could only have been written by one who knew both road and ring intimately. The action inside the ropes bristles with jabs, hooks, crosses, and uppercuts. And when Tully has a veteran boxer tell Shane, “I like you, that's all—you take it and lash it out—and you don't whimper,” he is repeating almost word for word Jim's own code, stated to Langston Hughes months earlier. While Tully paints Shane in heroic colors,
The Bruiser
avoids sentimentality. It takes an unflinching look at all the types who encrust boxing, including broken-down punch-drunks, gamblers, cheats, hangers-on, promoters, reporters, and fans screaming for blood.

Recalling Jim's experiences, Shane's life is transformed by books, or, in Shane's case, one book in particular: Helen Keller's
Story of My Life
. Reading the book in one sitting, Shane closes Keller's memoir and realizes that despite Keller's blindness and deafness, “She's seen more than I have.” Shane “had never been aware of bees and flowers. The blind girl had. The world was a place he had never known.” It is one of Tully's favorite themes: a damaged life transformed by a book.

Reviews of
The Bruiser
were the best Tully had received in years and among the best he'd ever had.
New York Times
critic E. C. Beckwith acknowledged the novel followed the standard formula for boxing books, but recognized that Tully had “manipulated them with so skillful an artistry that the resultant work acquires a freshness and vitality which one had long ago thought extinct in pugilistic fiction.” There is a “touch of heart interest,” Beckwith continued,

David Tilden, critic at
Books
, noted that
The Bruiser
was not “literary in any sense of the word, but the story is swiftly
moving and, with just enough of disorder and emotion to make it a thoroughly human document.”

Frank Scully picked up on Tully's description of a punch-drunk boxer in his review of the
The Bruiser
. The subject had received scant attention before
The Bruiser
and Scully was taken with Tully's accurate portrayal. Tully's punch-drunk reminded Scully of Ad Wolgast, “a once prominent bruiser who ended his ring career throwing punches at shuffling phantoms in the cell of an insane asylum.”

Wolgast was indeed the basis for Tully's punch-drunk boxer. Jim had kept tabs on his former sparring partner, who had been sent to the Camarillo State Hospital in 1927 and where he remained for the rest of his life. In addition to basing
The Bruisers
Adam Walsh on Wolgast, Tully used Joe Gans as the basis for Joe Crane, Jack Tierney for Chicago Jed Williams, and Battling Schultz for Battling Ryan.

Jim was buoyed by the good reviews, writing Nathan, “The novel, ‘Bruiser' is starting well—400 copies sold yesterday…. It's the starting of my second wind.” And to Mencken, Tully could crow that
The Bruiser
was proving to be his best book “critically and financially” since 1929.

Praise for
The Bruiser
arrived from other quarters as well. Former heavyweight champion Gene Tunney, who had defeated Jack Dempsey twice, wrote to thank Jim for his inscribed copy, “It has great dramatic quality and from the pugilistic point of view is technically perfect.” Damon Runyon called it the greatest story of the ring ever told. W. C. Fields thanked Jim for his copy, adding in typically Fieldsian fashion, “Not a spoonful of the vile stuff has passed underneath my ruby nose these five months.” Nella Braddy, biographer of Anne Sullivan Macy, wrote on behalf of Helen
Keller to say that “
The Bruiser
reached Miss Helen Keller's home in the midst of the greatest sorrow of her life—the death on Oct. 20 of the great Irishwoman, Anne Sullivan Macy, who had been her teacher and constant companion for forty-nine years.” Braddy told Miss Keller about the book on the train returning from the funeral. “She was very much touched to know that you had thought of using her in the way you did and asked me to thank you.” Not all notices were so sublime. Alton wrote his stepmother from San Quentin,

In a lifetime of impossible odds,
The Bruiser
marked the triumphant comeback of an American writer who had learned early in life one important lesson: Never stop punching.

It was raining fiercely. The clouds roared with thunder. Water fell in long silver slivers. There was no escape from the driving water. Under the projecting roof of the section house, Shane Rory stood and gazed at the water splashing on the rails. His clothes were wet and wind-whipped.

He was about eighteen, and had not reached full growth. In spite of the rain, his hair still curled at the edge of his cap. A large blue scarf was tied about his neck. His coat collar was turned up. His hands were deep in his pockets. His jaws were set, his forehead wrinkled as he tried to penetrate through the rain-splashed air.

Engines shrieked about the railroad yards, their headlights burnishing the falling water.

He heard a voice coming near,

A young Negro tramp joined him. Coffee-colored, good-looking, and about Shane's age, he removed a cap that was plastered to his head with water.

The light from an engine slanted across him, as he said, “Lordy golly—what a night!”

“Wet, huh,” smiled Shane.

“Wet ain't de name,” he said, ringing the water from his cap, “I think some pipes is busted up theah.” His teeth showed white and even as he laughed. “It purty neah washed de train off de track comin' in heah,” he said as the wind swerved and threw the rain in their faces. “Hold on theah, Mister God, quit slappin' us wit' dat wateh—we's all had a bath.” The young Negro looked upward and laughed again. There was a smile in Shane's eyes.

“I'd give mah home in Heaben for a drink right now—and believe you me, I'd never take it back neitheh.”

He wore a ragged, red sweater and a wide-checked coat much too large for him.

“I wondeh what all de pooh people's doin' tonight— heah we is nice an' wahm afteh a big dinneh—an' a lot of pooh folks is outen de rain.”

A switchman signaled an engine about fifty feet away.

Shane grabbed the Negro's arm. “Come with me,” he said.

The water ran in rivulets from the switchman's rubber raincoat.

“How far is it to the nearest saloon?” Shane asked the man.

He lifted the lantern in Shane's face. “It's about three
hundred yards across the tracks,” he said, pointing.

“Thanks—let's go.” Shane pulled the Negro's arm.

A few minutes later their shoes squished with water across the dry floor of the empty saloon.

The bartender's eyes narrowed at Shane's companion.

“We don't serve Niggers in here,” he said.

“But, Mister,” Shane said, “I never thought of that—he's been in the hospital, sick—and he's been outen the rain. There's nobody here—won't you?”

“Well, I'll sell it to you, and you give it to him—let's see the color of your money.”

The bartender took the dollar, filled two glasses to the brim, and rang up twenty cents. When he turned from the register, the glasses were empty.

“Fill 'em up,” Shane ordered.

The bartender's eyes widened.

“How old are you kids?”

“Twenty-one—what's the difference?” Shane said.

“This Nigger kid's not over seventeen.”

“Sure he is,” said Shane— “Do you want to wire back to his home and find out?”

“Where, Africa—?” The bartender laughed, and filled the glasses.

Shane pushed a half dollar toward the Negro. “We might get split up,” he said,—“keep this.”

“I shuah will—thank you.”

The liquor tingling, they turned from the bar.

“Have one on me,” said the bartender. “I wouldn't want to see even a railroad dick out on a night like this.” He looked sharply at Shane. “You're a nice lookin' kid—how long you been a bum?”

“Ever since I can remember,” was the answer.

“And you?” He turned to the Negro.

“Afore that.”

He placed two full glasses in front of Shane, who handed one to his dark companion.

The switchman who had directed them to the saloon entered. “All the crazy people ain't in the bug-house,” he said to the bartender, looking in Shane's direction.

The bartender drained a glass and said, “Here's good luck, ‘boes.”

“Is it still raining?” Shane asked the switchman.

“Nope—it's about cleared up—which way are you fellows headed?”

“West,” was Shane's answer.

“Well, there's a fast freight through in an hour. She's headed West, and she slows up over the trestle.” Again he pointed.

Shane bought a half pint of liquor.

As they left the saloon, the bartender again said, “Good luck.”

They had not gone far when the rain began again. With heads down, they hurried onward. The thunder roared. The rain splashed.

“This'll make us grow,” laughed Shane.

“It'll wash me so white my ma won't know me.” Again came the Negro boy's musical laugh. “It's too wet foh ducks eben.”

He turned to Shane, “Gimme a drink o' dat liquor?”

“You can have it. I don't want any more.”

“Thanks.” The dark boy lifted the bottle.

The rain hit the bottom and rolled with the liquor into his mouth.

“May's well get wet inside as out,” he said. He looked at the half empty bottle.

As if he had dropped from the clouds with the rain, another young fellow joined them.

The yellow headlight from a switch-engine revealed him as dark, alert, almost handsome, and not over twenty-five.

“Which way, ‘boes?” he asked.

“Either way,” returned Shane, “mostly West.”

“Can I string along?” Without waiting for an answer, he saw the bottle in the Negro vagabond's hand and said, “What's you got there?”

“Puhfume,” laughed the Negro, “We's scentin' up the air.”

The light from the engine moved closer.

Both white boys looked at the powerful young Negro.

“I'se goin' somewheah's to sleep,” he said, “Torpedo Jones am all tiahed out.”

“What you tired out about?” asked the young fellow who had recently joined them.

“I wuz in a battle royal fouh nights ago—I done had to lick seben otheh Niggahs for five dollahs—an' I ain't got rested yit—I ain't.” He shuffled a few feet with an ominous grace. “I'se goin' to be a prize-fighteh—it's easier'n gittin' caught'n de rain an' nowheah's to sleep.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “Boy—did dem Niggahs trow dem punches—dey kep' a whizzin' by like bullets wit' grease on 'em—dey was moah Niggahs
in dat ring den dey is in jail—ebery time I stahts to poke, some Niggah'd wham me on de jaw—an' dat las' Niggah befoah ah knock ‘im dayd—he buhns one acrost ma ches' like a red hot pokah—but dat was de las'. I hits ‘im so hahd I jes' blas' his brains right outta de top o' his head—if dem ropes haden been deah—he'd be a rollin' yit.” He looked at his brown fist— “Yes suh— boy—when I hits 'em dey stays hit—when dat battle royal was ober dem Niggahs wuz layin' aroun' dat ring like dey'd been shot—”

The rain pelting his wide shoulders, he sauntered, cat-like, away.

“I'll bet he can fight,” volunteered Shane.

“What'd he call himself?” asked his companion.

“Torpedo Jones.”

The two white boys drifted together westward for about a week before arriving in a town of ten thousand people.

“Let's look the place over and meet at the depot in a couple of hours,” Shane's companion suggested.

“Okeh,” returned Shane.

He waited for the young fellow at the depot.

“Well, how did you make out?” he asked.

“Fine. I've got a job,” he said, “The priest gave me ten dollars to put gilt on his altar. It'll take me a couple of days, and you can help me. He's giving me twenty dollars altogether for the job. I told him I was an interior decorator.” He showed a ten dollar bill. “Let's get some grub first—then I'll buy the stuff and we'll go to work.”

An hour later they reported to the priest. He took them into the church and explained what he wanted done; then left.

No sound could be heard inside. Even their footsteps were indistinct around the heavy carpeted altar. The Lamp of the Sanctuary burned low, and in late afternoon threw faint shadows over them.

At the finish of their work, Shane's companion took him by the arm. Together they walked around the church, stopping at each painting that depicted Christ on His journey through life and death to the final resurrection.

At the last picture, Shane's comrade, solemn until now, said quickly, “He didn't have so much luck either.”

The priest entered, going slowly to the altar. The boys moved toward him.

Standing beneath the Lamp of the Sanctuary, he rubbed his hands together, and with a rapt expression, said, “I am pleased indeed. You have made it shine like the glory of God.”

He was a roly-poly man, who waddled slightly as he walked. He had two heavy chins, a florid complexion, and wore heavy glasses over his eyes.

After he had paid the rest of the money, he shook hands with each boy, saying, “Return to your homes, children—you are both too bright to lead such lives.”

They had not gone far, when Shane's companion said, “I hope he don't get next before we get out of town.”

“Next to what?” Shane asked.

“It was radiator gilt I put on the altar. It'll turn green in wet weather.” He looked up at the clouding sky.

“That's a shame,” Shane said, “he trusted you.”

“Well, real gilt would of cost ten dollars. I got enough radiator gilt for three.”

“Well, let me go back and tell him—it'll only make it hard on someone else that wants a favor from him.” Shane started back.

The young fellow held his arm and said, “It's done now. If you tell him we may both get pinched.”

Clouds covered the moon. The rain could be seen coming over the mountains. It continued steadily for more than an hour.

Shane and his companion stood in front of a well-lit store.

Two policemen approached them.

Shane's companion said hurriedly, “Let's go,” and ran swiftly away. Shane stood still.

The older policeman held him. The younger one chased his companion.

They were taken to the jail.

“Why did you run?” Shane asked his companion, after they were booked on suspicion, and placed in a cell.

Ill at ease, he answered, “I thought the priest squealed.”

They were brought before the Chief of Police, and questioned next morning. When finished with Shane,
he said, “We'll hold you a while for further investigation.”

His companion stepped forward. The Chief looked at him and grunted, “Ever see that?” He showed the youth his portrait.

The youth's face blanched.

He had escaped from an Eastern penitentiary while serving a term for burglary.

“Take them away,” commanded the Chief.

They were put in separate cells.

Shane heard his companion sobbing.

When they were turned loose in the yard for exercise, Shane said, “I wish I could do something.”

“I wish you could too,” he said, “but it's too late now.” He became more hopeful, “But five years ain't so long.”

The priest held services in the jail on Sunday.

The boys hung their heads as he came toward them. He greeted them kindly, with a sad expression in his eyes.

“Do not be afraid,” he said, “I will say nothing.” He looked at Shane's companion, “You have trouble enough.” The priest's lips trembled. He concealed with an effort the agony in his heart.

Shane was sent for the next morning. The priest was in the office of the Chief of Police.

“We're turning you loose,” said the Chief. “Father Downey here has given you a job.”

“Yes,” said the priest, “I would like to have you gild my altar. It has turned green.”

“All right, Father, I'll be glad to,” said Shane.

When Shane had finished, the priest paid for his room and meals and gave him ten dollars.

“Come with me to the jail,” he said. “The poor boy is going East tonight.”

Arriving there, the priest put an arm about the youth, and said, “Too bad.”

Shane and the priest stood for some moments upon the depot platform after the train had gone.

When it had faded from sight, the priest said slowly, “May he find mercy in the bosom of Christ, our Lord.”

The Chief of Police approached. “You know in our ‘Smoker' tomorrow night, Father, the boy in the first preliminary's sick.”

Shane spoke up. “Let me take his place. I can fight.”

The Chief looked surprised.

“What's your name, Jim Corbett?”

“No, Terry McGovern.”

The priest's eyes twinkled. “I wonder if you're lyin'.”

The stern policeman smiled.

“You look like you might be able to go some.”

“He does indeed.” The priest's eyes went over Shane. “You're a whelp of a boy.”

“Well, I won't let you down, Father.”

“Can you really box?” asked the Chief.

“Quite a bit,” answered Shane.

The engine that took his companion to the penitentiary whistled far away.

“Dear, dear,” said the priest, “it's such a sad world.”