Why? Jersey James was a poverty-stricken pugilistic wreck. No money. No food. No job. No hope. A wife and three small children to support. A broken past and a dreary future.

The gas had been cut off in the Braddock home. Jim borrowed money to buy milk for the kids. He and his wite went hungry as long as they could stand it. Then the family went on the dole. Jim tried to get work on the docks. He had been a longshoreman. ''No Help Wanted." Jim trudged away. He did earn a few dollars now and then working for a railroad. He lugged creosoted yellow pine ties about for a track gang. But the going was tough and the outlook was gloomy.

Jim had a friend. The friend was his manager when Jim was a fighter. That's a queer tale, too. On the average, a fight manager is a human harpy who squeezes all he can out of the blood and bones of husky and courageous young fellows and then tosses them callously aside when they are battered hulks of no more financial advantage for him. But there are exceptions. Just a few. Jim drew one of the exceptions in Joe Gould. Though he didn't know it at the time, that was the start of his good luck.

Two in the Swamp.

Plain James is a tall, stolid, unimaginative fellow. Joe Gould is a small, excitable chap. An odd pair but firm friends. They made money years ago as Jim bounced out of the amateur ranks to knock a flock of no-account fighters to the floor in the professional ring. The late Bill Muldoon said that Jim would some day be heavyweight champion of the world. So did Gene Tunney. The outlook was rosy for Braddock and Gould. They made money in the ring. They made money in the market. Easy come, easy go. They spent freely, even lavishly. There was more where that came from.

Then came a series of crashes for them. Their investments melted away in the depression. Braddock met defeat after defeat in the ring. Lost to Hans Birkie. Lost to Martin Levandowskl. Lost to Al Stillman. Lost to Al Ettore. Broke his right hand three times. Broke two ribs. Broke his collarbone. Had twenty-two stitches taken in cuts on his face.

A washed-up fighter on his way out. No promoter wanted him any more. Gould and Braddock went down the road together. Gould had a little money. Braddock borrowed from him until it was all gone. Thus they came to the end of the road, and the end of the road was the Dismal Swamp.

The Upward Swing.

At the edge of the Dismal Swamp began the fairy tale, an Arabian Nights story for modern days.

Gould was hanging around Madison Square Garden - sitting on the Mourner's Bench outside Jimmy Johnston's office--when there was a hurry call for a victim to be flattened by Corn Griffin on the Baer-Carnera program of last year.

Gould suggested Braddock. Johnston laughed. Gould implored. Johnston laughed again. But he couldn't rustle up any one else in a hurry and finally took Braddock in desperation, hoping that Jim would be able to stand up until Corn Griffin hit him.

And Corn Griffin did hit the untrained and half-starved Braddock. He belted Jim to the canvas in the second round. But Jim got up. Perhaps hunger had made Jim a bit savage. Ordinarily he is a very mild gent. In the third round Jim belted Corn Griffin to the canvas and the cracked Corn didn't get up.

Food for the Braddock family, at any rate. Jim's share was $250. It looked like a bonanza to him. Then the bout with John Henry Lewis. Every one said that he couldn't win. But they told him that when he went in against Griffin. He wasn't thinking about John Henry Lewis, anyway. He was thinking about the money he would get. He won the fight and got $700. Then Art Lasky, against whom he had no chance, of course. Lasky was the dashing young fellow who was going to fight Baer if he could catch up with him. A victory and $4,100 for James J. Braddock. Astonishing. Even Jim thought so, especially the money part. The fighting part he took in his stubborn stride.

The Set-Up.

Reasonably enough, the fellow who drove Lasky out of focus was chosen to take Art's place in the heavyweighht picture. He was to be tossed in against Max Baer for the first shot at the heavyweight championship.

It was hailed as ridiculous on all sides. He had no chance against Max Beer. It was forgotten or ignored that he had no chance against Corn Griifin. John Henry Lewis and Art Lasky in that order and went on to win those fights.

Still Jim didn't care, He was eating regularly. He had paid his debts. He was many months off the dole. He and his family were far better off than they were a year ago. He would have the benefit of good training for the big fight. He would get a lot of money--for him--win, lose or draw. And to unimaginative Jim, Baer would be just another fellow in the ring. A bigger fellow than Jim. A harder hitter. It didn't matter. Jim would plod in there and do his best steadily and stubbornly.

The Upset.

Except for the happy ending, any mention of the fight is painful. The Baer who talked like a braggart was a shocking disappointment as a championship defendant. How did he hurt his hands early in the bout? It must have been by sitting on them between rounds. He didn't even aim a good windy blow at Plain James until the fifth.

He sneered at the referee. He flaunted his contempt of the booing crowd with jeering gestures. He tried to scare Braddock with a gargoyle grimace and a fierce snarl. It had worked against the bewildered Carnera, but Plain James didn't scare worth a nickel.
He just plodded in and messed up the snarl and the grimace with a stiff left jab.

So Jim won. That's the only part of the program pleasant to dwell upon. From rags to riches. Strive and succeed. A man may be down but he's never out. Lucky Jim at the last. Not a great fighter but -- and possibly even Max Baer can see this -- a great lesson for courageous plodders in any walk of life.