This didn't make things easy for the two Jacobses. "Mr. Joe Jacobs must think that of all times the Hitlerites could have chosen for their exhibition of barbarism the present is the worst, when he is trying to get an indulgent public opinion for his prize fighter," the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune wrote. But Hitler didn't have to choose between pogroms and prizefights; he could have both. The American public either had grown inured to events in Germany, or saw the fight as a way to strike back, or had grown tired of protests, as even the league conceded. "New York City has been overrun by men and women pickets for more than a year, each one flaunting pasteboard banners, shouting messages against this, that or the other thing," it stated. "The medium has become commonplace, has lost its zip. It receives as much public attention as a bridal party in Niagara Falls." wrote. But Hitler didn't have to choose between pogroms and prizefights; he could have both. The American public either had grown inured to events in Germany, or saw the fight as a way to strike back, or had grown tired of protests, as even the league conceded. "New York City has been overrun by men and women pickets for more than a year, each one flaunting pasteboard banners, shouting messages against this, that or the other thing," it stated. "The medium has become commonplace, has lost its zip. It receives as much public attention as a bridal party in Niagara Falls."

The New York press barely mentioned the protests, and usually only to belittle them. "For humanity's sake, heed the cries of torture of those cursed with Hitler's terror and stress the Schmeling boycott," an activist wired Joe Williams. "If you boycott Schmeling don't you boycott Louis at the same time?" Williams replied. "And what has Louis ever done to anybody?" "We have kept Schmeling waiting long enough," stated a letter to The New York Times. The New York Times. "He is probably too old now to defeat Louis again, anyhow. But now that he is finally getting his great chance, let's give Schmeling, the sportsman, fair play and forget Schmeling, the commodity." Jews remained divided on the topic, sometimes embarrassingly so. "He is probably too old now to defeat Louis again, anyhow. But now that he is finally getting his great chance, let's give Schmeling, the sportsman, fair play and forget Schmeling, the commodity." Jews remained divided on the topic, sometimes embarrassingly so. The American Israelite The American Israelite reported that an officer of the Anti-Nazi League had bought a block of tickets for the fight. reported that an officer of the Anti-Nazi League had bought a block of tickets for the fight.

Someone handed a British reporter a boycott flyer. It stated, inaccurately, that "a quarter of every dollar" spent on tickets ended up with Hitler and reminded people, accurately, that none of Schmeling's take went to refugees. "The first knock-out in next week's big fight has been landed: the boycotters have taken it," he observed. "The intensity of the boycott will not stop thousands of Jews and all Harlem from going to the fight, but they will go with the fervent hope of seeing Louis cut Schmeling to ribbons." Berlin newspapers were as pleased with brisk ticket sales as Mike Jacobs was. "The alleged anti-German attitude of the New York audience, once used to justify the cancellation of the Schmeling-Braddock bout, could not have been refuted more convincingly," a reporter wrote.

The Broadway columnists had ignored the boycott. Though staunchly anti-Nazi, Walter Winchell had praised Schmeling and taken him and Joe Jacobs on a tour of local hot spots. The publisher of the Post Post was on the league's board, yet his paper, I. Q. Gross charged in was on the league's board, yet his paper, I. Q. Gross charged in The Nation, The Nation, had "ballyhooed the fight like it has never ballyhooed any other fight in history." Gross pleaded with league leaders to be more aggressive. The group boasted that Mike Jacobs was well short of the million-dollar gate he envisioned; Schmeling would bring home far less bacon than Goebbels had expected. "The League expresses the profound hope, inasmuch as the fight is to be held, that it will result in a knockout wallop to the Nazi yowl of Aryan supremacy," it declared. In other words, the fight was going forward anyway, so pull for Louis. Picketers were outside Yankee Stadium the day before the bout, carrying had "ballyhooed the fight like it has never ballyhooed any other fight in history." Gross pleaded with league leaders to be more aggressive. The group boasted that Mike Jacobs was well short of the million-dollar gate he envisioned; Schmeling would bring home far less bacon than Goebbels had expected. "The League expresses the profound hope, inasmuch as the fight is to be held, that it will result in a knockout wallop to the Nazi yowl of Aryan supremacy," it declared. In other words, the fight was going forward anyway, so pull for Louis. Picketers were outside Yankee Stadium the day before the bout, carrying BOYCOTT THE FIGHT BOYCOTT THE FIGHT banners. But no one picketed the Hippodrome, where tickets were actually being sold, and most fans bought them by mail anyway. banners. But no one picketed the Hippodrome, where tickets were actually being sold, and most fans bought them by mail anyway.

In a radio interview from Pompton Lakes, Nat Fleischer predicted a paid attendance of 74,982 and a gate of $1,062,000. Scalpers were selling $30 tickets for $100 to $110; ringside seats were fetching $200. A reporter from New Orleans detected last-minute demand among conformist New Yorkers afraid to miss something big. A Virginia paper sneered at how, in a country racked by Depression, seventy thousand fools could drop $1 million on something so inconsequential. "As long as people are boobs enough to pay a fortune to a couple of prizefighters to perform for their entertainment, the pugilists can't be blamed for taking the money," it added.

Finally, the time came for the fighters to break camp and head for New York. Louis's trip was uneventful. Schmeling's was not.

On the afternoon of June 21, some thirty hours before the fight, Schmeling was scheduled to board a train in Amsterdam, New York, that would reach Grand Central around ten that night. For a week, though, rumors abounded that he would come by air. On his Sunday night radio program, Walter Winchell made it official: "Max Schmeling will fly to New York on the day of the fight!" he announced breathlessly. "Dick Merrill will handle the stick!" Merrill was a legendary aviator, the first ever to fly round-trip across the Atlantic, holder of several speed records, rescuer of Antarctic explorers. The year before, Franklin Roosevelt had invited him to the White House, and Eddie Rickenbacker called him the best commercial pilot in the United States. But Mike Jacobs wasn't impressed. To him flying was still too dangerous, and was, like horseback riding or baseball playing, on his list of proscribed activities. Jacobs went further, calling a local company that rented planes to make sure no aircraft was available. But Schmeling, and Merrill, could not be stopped. For Schmeling flying was simultaneously a way to save time, have a great adventure, show his sangfroid on the eve of the biggest moment in his life, tweak Jacobs, intimidate Louis, and protect his own well-being: he and his people believed Jacobs wanted him rattled by a long and rickety train ride.

Jacobs's phone call scuttled Merrill's original, spectacular plan to rent an amphibious craft and land it on the lake outside Schmeling's cottage. Instead, Merrill obtained a plane from Eastern Air Lines, which he flew to Schenectady on Tuesday afternoon. He then drove to Speculator, where he dined with Schmeling and some of his friends. By seven-thirty the group-which included Joe Jacobs, Machon, two state troopers, and a pair of reporters-was at the airport in Schenectady. Schmeling boarded fast, taking time only to wave to the two hundred or so people who had somehow caught wind of what was afoot. Within ten minutes, the hour-long flight to Newark had begun. Once the plane leveled off at four thousand feet Schmeling took the controls, where he remained until they were over the George Washington Bridge. He appeared almost boyishly gleeful over evading Jacobs's strictures. But the German was "Sphinxlike" as he emerged from the plane, leaving all the talking to Yussel. He would not even say where Schmeling was spending the night, though it was one of his usual haunts: the Essex House, on Central Park South.

The staff there had readied the place, installing an air conditioner to protect Schmeling from New York's blistering summertime heat. His chef was already on the job, in a secure kitchen. A reporter in Berlin reached Schmeling by phone just as he arrived in the lobby. "Next time we'll speak, you'll be world champion," the reporter said. "Hopefully," Schmeling replied with a laugh. "Things should work out fine." Around nine, Erwin Thoma and two other German journalists went to Schmeling's suite, on the thirty-sixth floor. Greeting them in an anteroom were three detectives, armed to the teeth. Thoma was struck by how suspiciously the policemen eyed even the maid who came to make up Schmeling's outsize bed. More detectives were in the lobby; Schmeling was protected like a jewel. "We find this all a little strange, exaggerated," Thoma later wrote. "At home a guard of detectives would be ridiculous. But here in the United States, the country where kidnapping, along medieval lines, is still known as a form of blackmail, this caution is entirely appropriate." Even stranger to him was the mood in Schmeling's room: something "serious and depressed" hung in the air. For two hours, all attempts at sociability failed. "I don't know what's wrong up there," Thoma told his colleagues after they'd left. "Schmeling is so quiet, like I've never seen him before. Is something worrying him?" The night was oppressive, at least for Germans, one of those New York summer evenings when even the walls seemed to sweat. "We sink into the asphalt and the skyscrapers disappear in the fog," wrote Curt Riess, the German-Jewish emigre covering the fight for Paris Soir. Paris Soir. "Everyone is drained of their energy." Thoma worried that going from the cool breezes of Speculator to the "city of wash-house air and the smell of gasoline" could weaken an athlete, cut his force of will in half. "Everyone is drained of their energy." Thoma worried that going from the cool breezes of Speculator to the "city of wash-house air and the smell of gasoline" could weaken an athlete, cut his force of will in half.

A fan had approached Schmeling in Speculator once, saying he'd come 1,500 miles to see him. "You've traveled 1,500 miles to see me but I've traveled 60,000 miles to get a close-up of Louis," Schmeling replied. And it was true: for Schmeling and for those who followed him, the fight marked the end of a long, long trail. Six years had passed since Schmeling had lost the title, and a year had gone by since he'd been robbed of his chance to regain it. He had overcome all the setbacks, obstacles, disappointments, and harassment, but he still faced every athlete's greatest adversary: time. For most boxers, thirty was the fatal divide, when legs, judgment, reflexes, and stamina began to wane. Though Schmeling was now pushing thirty-three, Thoma thought him still as young, ambitious, self-confident, and strong as a twenty-five-year-old. Louis, at twenty-four, enjoyed youth and all the physical advantages of his race, Thoma acknowledged, but with it came the black man's weaknesses: indifference, melancholy, a spirit easily broken and impossible to repair. Hurt a black man only once, Thoma believed, and "something somehow turns off in his brain and in his heart."

Throwing caution to the wind, the Angriff now Angriff now apotheosized Schmeling into a modern Germanic hero: "In him, too, the wanderlust of the typical German has always been alive." Always, he had been "called by the far-away, like all those who feel a drop of the blood of the conqueror in their veins." Schmeling personified everything positive: "He is life affirming, he is the embodiment of optimism, and when others doubt, then Max becomes calm for a few moments, stands up, and then says with his deep voice, 'Even that we can do!'" A newspaper in Konigsberg fit Schmeling specifically into Nazi ideology. "National-Socialist Germany, the sports people, is imbued with this: that man can be not only in top form for a few years, but perform at a high and respectable level over a long period of time if only the will is hard enough," it wrote. apotheosized Schmeling into a modern Germanic hero: "In him, too, the wanderlust of the typical German has always been alive." Always, he had been "called by the far-away, like all those who feel a drop of the blood of the conqueror in their veins." Schmeling personified everything positive: "He is life affirming, he is the embodiment of optimism, and when others doubt, then Max becomes calm for a few moments, stands up, and then says with his deep voice, 'Even that we can do!'" A newspaper in Konigsberg fit Schmeling specifically into Nazi ideology. "National-Socialist Germany, the sports people, is imbued with this: that man can be not only in top form for a few years, but perform at a high and respectable level over a long period of time if only the will is hard enough," it wrote.

For "Germany's best-known radio announcer," as the 8 Uhr-Blatt 8 Uhr-Blatt called Hellmis, it was also a climactic moment: his faith was about to receive its sternest test. A visitor to any German kiosk found Hellmis expounding on Schmeling wherever he turned, and in none of those venues did he ever waver. His conclusion was inescapable: logically speaking, Schmeling simply could not lose. "Nothing but a dumb accident, which in boxing must certainly always be taken into account, justifies pessimism," he wrote. Schmeling would need six rounds or so to thwart "the primitive nature-boy." Most American sportswriters would have agreed with him, he said, if denigrating Schmeling was not just a matter of professional self-preservation-they had, after all, to placate their Jewish bosses-but one of self-enrichment, too; by raising the odds against Schmeling, they'd collect more betting on him. called Hellmis, it was also a climactic moment: his faith was about to receive its sternest test. A visitor to any German kiosk found Hellmis expounding on Schmeling wherever he turned, and in none of those venues did he ever waver. His conclusion was inescapable: logically speaking, Schmeling simply could not lose. "Nothing but a dumb accident, which in boxing must certainly always be taken into account, justifies pessimism," he wrote. Schmeling would need six rounds or so to thwart "the primitive nature-boy." Most American sportswriters would have agreed with him, he said, if denigrating Schmeling was not just a matter of professional self-preservation-they had, after all, to placate their Jewish bosses-but one of self-enrichment, too; by raising the odds against Schmeling, they'd collect more betting on him.

Thirty thousand people had entered the Angriff's Angriff's pool. Readers picked Schmeling by one hundred to one. Of the 6,000 who participated in a similar contest in Nuremberg, only 150 brave souls went with Louis; the ratio was about the same in Hamburg. pool. Readers picked Schmeling by one hundred to one. Of the 6,000 who participated in a similar contest in Nuremberg, only 150 brave souls went with Louis; the ratio was about the same in Hamburg.* The The Angriff Angriff offered snippets from twelve entrants, all picking Maxe, all parroting the Nazi party line. "I'm just afraid that Schmeling will still lose a sure victory through some kind of treacherous incident," one wrote. "Schmeling will do it, even though Louis probably hopes to be able to bring about the opposite through low blows," stated another. "A Negro can and never will summon the ambition Schmeling has," said a third. offered snippets from twelve entrants, all picking Maxe, all parroting the Nazi party line. "I'm just afraid that Schmeling will still lose a sure victory through some kind of treacherous incident," one wrote. "Schmeling will do it, even though Louis probably hopes to be able to bring about the opposite through low blows," stated another. "A Negro can and never will summon the ambition Schmeling has," said a third.

As the fighters made their way to the city, so did thousands of fans; three-quarters of them, Jacobs estimated, came from out of town. "Not a train pulled to a stop in Grand Central or Pennsylvania Station without pouring out fight customers," wrote Henry McLemore of the United Press. "Not a bus jerked to a halt in the city's dozens of terminals without unloading more of the same. Not an airplane taxied to a halt at Newark airport without a fight fan included in its cargo." Never, in fact, had so many fans arrived by air. Others came by boat, be they one-day excursions from Boston (round-trip fare: $6.75) or transatlantic voyages. Tommy Farr came via the Queen Mary, Queen Mary, and spotted a crowd around another celebrity passenger as they disembarked. It was Joseph P. Kennedy. "Who's he gonna fight?" Farr asked. Trains teeming with Louis fans came from Detroit, Chicago, and Washington. A "Louis Victory Special" pulled in from Philadelphia. A caravan of two hundred cars arrived from Pittsburgh; a similar procession came from New Orleans. Relief officials in Cleveland and Chicago were reportedly checking whether anyone on their rolls had headed to New York. A hundred blacks came from Atlanta, infuriating a minister there. "I can count on the fingers of one hand the Negroes who are really able, without sacrifice to their families or themselves, to take this long and expensive trip," he groused. But his complaint, like the boycotters', was futile. and spotted a crowd around another celebrity passenger as they disembarked. It was Joseph P. Kennedy. "Who's he gonna fight?" Farr asked. Trains teeming with Louis fans came from Detroit, Chicago, and Washington. A "Louis Victory Special" pulled in from Philadelphia. A caravan of two hundred cars arrived from Pittsburgh; a similar procession came from New Orleans. Relief officials in Cleveland and Chicago were reportedly checking whether anyone on their rolls had headed to New York. A hundred blacks came from Atlanta, infuriating a minister there. "I can count on the fingers of one hand the Negroes who are really able, without sacrifice to their families or themselves, to take this long and expensive trip," he groused. But his complaint, like the boycotters', was futile.

The density and pace of New York changed. Jack Dempsey's anticipated an additional $10,000 a night in business. With so many people in town, attendance at Aqueduct Racetrack was of "holiday proportions." A Broadway movie theater did a brisk business showing films of the first fight. "As jittery as a bridegroom fumbling for a wedding ring," was how The Washington Post The Washington Post described the city. But the neighborhood that was most transformed was Harlem. Its hotels, penthouses, guesthouses, flophouses, and crash pads filled up, as did its bars and restaurants. The Hotel Theresa put beds in its lobby to deal with the overflow. "Not even General Washington in his Revolutionary War rambling had as many headquarters as do the Joe Louis fans," the Associated Negro Press wrote. The rich flaunted their money-the described the city. But the neighborhood that was most transformed was Harlem. Its hotels, penthouses, guesthouses, flophouses, and crash pads filled up, as did its bars and restaurants. The Hotel Theresa put beds in its lobby to deal with the overflow. "Not even General Washington in his Revolutionary War rambling had as many headquarters as do the Joe Louis fans," the Associated Negro Press wrote. The rich flaunted their money-the Amsterdam News Amsterdam News reported more Packards and other fancy cars on Harlem's streets than on the assembly lines of Detroit-while the poor scraped together what little money they had. One reporter spotted a black woman purchasing two $11.50 seats. "From her bag, she drew an old blanket-sized $20 bill that must have been under a rug since Dewey steamed into Manila Bay," he wrote. A store on 125th Street had marked radios down to $50 for the occasion, with many buyers paying for them in installments. "Of course, after the fight, there will be a rush to reclaim these machines from delinquent customers, but they shall have heard the fight," one black weekly reported. The neighborhood went about its business with a mix of eagerness and apprehension. Most of the visiting Germans stayed on their ships. But in a bow to Schmeling, the Casino movie theater on East Eighty-sixth Street featured reported more Packards and other fancy cars on Harlem's streets than on the assembly lines of Detroit-while the poor scraped together what little money they had. One reporter spotted a black woman purchasing two $11.50 seats. "From her bag, she drew an old blanket-sized $20 bill that must have been under a rug since Dewey steamed into Manila Bay," he wrote. A store on 125th Street had marked radios down to $50 for the occasion, with many buyers paying for them in installments. "Of course, after the fight, there will be a rush to reclaim these machines from delinquent customers, but they shall have heard the fight," one black weekly reported. The neighborhood went about its business with a mix of eagerness and apprehension. Most of the visiting Germans stayed on their ships. But in a bow to Schmeling, the Casino movie theater on East Eighty-sixth Street featured Grossreinemachen, Grossreinemachen, a comedy starring Anny Ondra. a comedy starring Anny Ondra.

Uncertainty over the fight was ubiquitous. "It is a grab in the dark, a guess thrown to the winds, a groping in the fogs of chance-no matter what anyone may tell you," Grantland Rice wrote. Another sportswriter spent the day before the bout on Jacobs Beach, schmoozing with managers and seconds, trainers and reporters, fighters and hangers-on-the greatest concentration of fight experts on the planet, at least until the next night in Yankee Stadium. And from all those conversations, he reached only one conclusion. "This," he wrote, "is the fight nobody knows anything about."

* The Nazi press laughed off such speculation. A paper in Hamburg joked that were Schmeling to lose, he would have to report to the Gestapo daily and recite a Christian prayer of repentance 207 times. Then he would be thrown in the meat grinder, with his remains fed to the fishes. But if he won, Berlin would erect a monument for him along Unter den Linden, and Hamburg would be renamed "Schmeling." The Nazi press laughed off such speculation. A paper in Hamburg joked that were Schmeling to lose, he would have to report to the Gestapo daily and recite a Christian prayer of repentance 207 times. Then he would be thrown in the meat grinder, with his remains fed to the fishes. But if he won, Berlin would erect a monument for him along Unter den Linden, and Hamburg would be renamed "Schmeling."* It was a far cry from Warsaw, where an estimated eight thousand people placed bets, with most wagering their zlotys on Louis. It was a far cry from Warsaw, where an estimated eight thousand people placed bets, with most wagering their zlotys on Louis.

The Fight

EARLY IN THE AFTERNOON OF J JUNE 22 -fight day-five thousand people stood on the south side of West Forty-ninth Street and Eighth Avenue. Someone with an eye for drama and publicity had wisely decided to move the weigh-in from the dingy, claustrophobic downtown offices of the boxing commission to something more spacious and splashy: the center of the arena at Madison Square Garden. Five hundred policemen held back the teeming crowd as it awaited the two principals. 22 -fight day-five thousand people stood on the south side of West Forty-ninth Street and Eighth Avenue. Someone with an eye for drama and publicity had wisely decided to move the weigh-in from the dingy, claustrophobic downtown offices of the boxing commission to something more spacious and splashy: the center of the arena at Madison Square Garden. Five hundred policemen held back the teeming crowd as it awaited the two principals.

Schmeling had spent a fitful night, disturbed by the traffic around his hotel, and slept until eleven. A mass of people cheered as he left the Essex House and made his way south a few blocks to the Garden, in a car driven by Joe Jacobs's detective brother. The perpetually punctual German arrived thirteen minutes early, at 12:47 p.m. He was very much unshaven, and wore a dark suit. He clasped his hands above his head as the crowd shouted its approval. When he stepped inside, someone handed him an envelope. As strange as it seemed-why there, rather than at his hotel? and who was the courier?-it was a cablegram from Adolf Hitler. "To the next world's champion, Max Schmeling," it said. "Wishing you every success."

Louis arrived twenty-five minutes later, in a shiny blue limousine, followed, in what some saw as an ill omen, by a long black hearse. So many people clogged the thoroughfare that the car had to slow to a crawl as it approached. The Louis that emerged was a "Creole fashion plate," wearing a gray plaid suit with pocket square, soft hat, open-collared shirt, foulard, and sunglasses. He, too, received a boisterous ovation. Mike Jacobs, wearing a straw skimmer, escorted him inside. Three doctors examined the fighters in their respective dressing rooms. One of them pronounced Louis to be in much better shape than for the last Schmeling fight; never, he said, had he examined a more perfect athlete. The two boxers met coming out of their quarters and shook hands. A grinning Schmeling was the first to say hello, and Louis-irritable because the weigh-in had been postponed an hour, thereby upsetting his sleep cycle-mumbled a reply. Then they walked together to the ceremony, clad incongruously in suit coats and trunks. Louis, the area beneath his left eye slightly swollen from sparring, wore gray suede oxfords, Schmeling a pair of bedroom slippers. The head of the boxing commission, General John J. Phelan, greeted the two of them and joked that because they presumably knew one another already, there was no need for introductions. A courtly Schmeling asked Louis how he was, and held out his hand. Louis said hello.

Ignoring the old boxing shibboleth that it brought bad luck, Schmeling had shaved. Stripped naked, he stood on the scales, grinning and winking at the press. He came in at 193, a bit lighter than he'd expected, but a pound heavier than for the first Louis fight. When Louis's turn came, he balked. "I ain't going to take my pants off," he declared. "Make 'em turn those things off," he added, pointing to the cameras. After a three-minute huddle, Roxborough announced that if the cameras were shut off and the lights lowered, Louis would drop his trunks. He weighed 19834. The Bomber was "as emotionless as the corner of a house." The two fighters mugged for the photographers, with Louis offering Schmeling a limp handshake and Schmeling holding his right fist a quarter inch from Louis's jaw. James Dawson of The New York Times of The New York Times thought that Schmeling looked intimidated. Chester Washington, one of ten thought that Schmeling looked intimidated. Chester Washington, one of ten Courier Courier reporters covering the fight, reminded Louis of the New Year's resolution he'd made to him. "I know, and I'm gonna finish this one in a hurry," Louis replied. He had heard about the Fuhrer's telegram, and said he would make Hitler sorry he had ever sent it. reporters covering the fight, reminded Louis of the New Year's resolution he'd made to him. "I know, and I'm gonna finish this one in a hurry," Louis replied. He had heard about the Fuhrer's telegram, and said he would make Hitler sorry he had ever sent it.

The boxing commission barred the Chicago-made gloves Louis preferred, whose protruding thumbs, Schmeling charged, could have poked him in the eye. It was a victory for Joe Jacobs, who had seen them to be, as someone joked, "not only a menace to his fighter, but also a violation of the Constitution, a reversal of the Dred Scott decision, an insult to the American flag, and an abuse of the pure food and drugs act." Schmeling and his entourage quietly repaired to the Concourse Plaza Hotel in the Bronx, four blocks from Yankee Stadium. It was a way to shake the press, avoid the long drive from Manhattan later on, and take an afternoon walk in the fresh air. Louis went to Duke Ellington's apartment, where neither Blackburn's jokes nor someone tickling his feet could make him laugh. For a couple of days he'd been surly, barely talking to people, grunting out monosyllables. "We'd better let the champ rest," Blackburn said. "He's in a bad mood." "I'm goin' out and fight three rounds as fast as I can go," Louis told Blackburn. "If Schmeling is still on his feet after that you'd better come get me." Blackburn himself was satisfied. "I did all I could," he said. "He's as good as hands can make him."

The weather was iffy. When Mike Jacobs belatedly consulted his Farmers' Almanac, Farmers' Almanac, he saw that June 22 would be "very disappointing." At his request, around noon a United Airlines meteorologist went up twelve thousand feet and forecast an occasional shower or light mist between six and midnight. Around three o'clock there was indeed a light shower uptown, but barring a downpour, Jacobs decreed, the fight would go on. Both fighters were to report to the stadium by eight, two hours before the scheduled start. Harlem's streets were jammed. People were wearing their holiday best, and waving red pennants proclaiming JOE LOUIS, WORLD'S CHAMPION. "We were in the land of Louis and his countrymen already were celebrating," a reporter from Richmond, Virginia, wrote. When Louis's car stalled in traffic, it was immediately swamped. It arrived at Yankee Stadium half an hour late, and was again engulfed. In the meantime, out-of-town fans kept streaming into Manhattan and up to the Bronx. Holding fight tickets but stuck in Albany until midafternoon, Roy Wilkins of the NAACP begged the conductor to "step on it," and his train reached Harlem three minutes early. "That good enough for you?" the conductor asked him with a wink. Coming in from Baltimore, Lula Jones Garrett, who was covering Marva for the he saw that June 22 would be "very disappointing." At his request, around noon a United Airlines meteorologist went up twelve thousand feet and forecast an occasional shower or light mist between six and midnight. Around three o'clock there was indeed a light shower uptown, but barring a downpour, Jacobs decreed, the fight would go on. Both fighters were to report to the stadium by eight, two hours before the scheduled start. Harlem's streets were jammed. People were wearing their holiday best, and waving red pennants proclaiming JOE LOUIS, WORLD'S CHAMPION. "We were in the land of Louis and his countrymen already were celebrating," a reporter from Richmond, Virginia, wrote. When Louis's car stalled in traffic, it was immediately swamped. It arrived at Yankee Stadium half an hour late, and was again engulfed. In the meantime, out-of-town fans kept streaming into Manhattan and up to the Bronx. Holding fight tickets but stuck in Albany until midafternoon, Roy Wilkins of the NAACP begged the conductor to "step on it," and his train reached Harlem three minutes early. "That good enough for you?" the conductor asked him with a wink. Coming in from Baltimore, Lula Jones Garrett, who was covering Marva for the Afro-American, Afro-American, needed no directions from Pennsylvania Station. "The crowd simply carried you through the gates, up the Eighth Avenue exit, into the sub[way] and into the Stadium," she wrote. By evening the threat of rain had waned, and the air had cleared. Some 1,700 policemen joined Jacobs's private army of 1,000, including 675 ushers and 75 ticket takers. Uncle Mike's mobile ticket offices circled the ballpark, picking off buyers otherwise headed for the scalpers. (Perhaps he'd put them in his newly created rows 9a, 12a, and 15a.) The place was ringed by flags; the swastika was not among them. needed no directions from Pennsylvania Station. "The crowd simply carried you through the gates, up the Eighth Avenue exit, into the sub[way] and into the Stadium," she wrote. By evening the threat of rain had waned, and the air had cleared. Some 1,700 policemen joined Jacobs's private army of 1,000, including 675 ushers and 75 ticket takers. Uncle Mike's mobile ticket offices circled the ballpark, picking off buyers otherwise headed for the scalpers. (Perhaps he'd put them in his newly created rows 9a, 12a, and 15a.) The place was ringed by flags; the swastika was not among them.

Members of the Anti-Nazi League, having failed to convince fight-goers to shun one particular German product, reiterated calls to boycott all the rest. Meantime, the Communists handed out flyers: Usually a sports event is not a matter of "politics." Far from us to make it so.

But Hitler, and his anti-Semitic, anti-Negro, anti-fair-play pugilist, Schmeling, make this fight a matter of "politics."

Last time, Hitler played up Schmeling's victory as an "aryan triumph." Americans remember, also, Hitler's personal insults to American athletes in the Olympics.

Schmeling has been a willing tool of Hitler's propaganda, and has many unsportsmanlike, un-American statements to his discredit.

So if it's "politics," let's tear the mask off!

SCHMELING STANDS FOR NAZISM- NAZISM MEANS Spy-rings against our Country, pogroms against Jews, Catholics and Protestants. Nazism means bombing and slaughter of innocent Catholic women and children. NAZISM means BARBARISM. Spy-rings against our Country, pogroms against Jews, Catholics and Protestants. Nazism means bombing and slaughter of innocent Catholic women and children. NAZISM means BARBARISM.

SO WE AMERICANS ALL PULL WITH OUR JOE LOUIS, WIN OR LOSE!.

LONG LIVE GOOD, CLEAN AMERICAN SPORTSMANSHIP!.

The last line on the flyer provided one more reminder of why the boycott had failed. "READ CRACKERJACK FIGHT NEWS IN TOMORROW'S DAILY WORKER," it read. People just cared too much. In fact, anyone carrying that day's Worker Worker into the stadium could have read lots about the fight. "I'd like to see Joe Louis blast Schmeling all over the ring tonight, knock the false bluster and braggodocio into the stadium could have read lots about the fight. "I'd like to see Joe Louis blast Schmeling all over the ring tonight, knock the false bluster and braggodocio [sic] [sic] right out of Hitler's pal much the same as the people of Germany will eventually knock out Hitler," Lester Rodney had written. "If that sounds like wild overemphasis on a fight between just two men, that's due only to Schmeling and his Nazi cohorts. They've stuck a little swastika right out there on Schmeling's chin tonight for the greatest hitter of ring history to knock into the thirtieth row along with the wildly screaming Nazi headlines." right out of Hitler's pal much the same as the people of Germany will eventually knock out Hitler," Lester Rodney had written. "If that sounds like wild overemphasis on a fight between just two men, that's due only to Schmeling and his Nazi cohorts. They've stuck a little swastika right out there on Schmeling's chin tonight for the greatest hitter of ring history to knock into the thirtieth row along with the wildly screaming Nazi headlines."

Inside the stadium were hundreds of vendors, all white, and in white uniforms, who had arrived several hours earlier for their assignments, hawking candy, soda, and programs. At a quarter apiece, the programs contained the life stories of the two fighters, along with another profile of Mike Jacobs, a compilation of record gates-this fight instantly took sixth place on the all-time list-and, on the back cover, Joe DiMaggio pushing Camels. (They aided his digestion, he said.) The fans "seemed electrically charged as they went through the turnstiles," an eyewitness later recalled. Then they found their seats, settling in with the contented sighs of those arriving at the center of the universe in good shape and in plenty of time. The celebrities again came fashionably late, taxing reporters who needed to cram a few names into boldface for the early editions. Popping flashbulbs heralded their arrivals.

General Phelan entered with James Farley and ordered Larry MacPhail, president of the Brooklyn Dodgers, to move down to make room. Frank Hague, the dictator of Jersey City, and Mayor Edward Kelly of Chicago took their places in the "press rows," along with other high-muck-a-mucks and plutocrats. Some were Mike Jacobs's "personal" customers, who paid as much as $500 for the privilege. Alongside them, one by one, were the greatest sportswriters of their generation: Damon Run-yon, Grantland Rice, Frank Graham, Bill Corum, Dan Parker, Murray Lewin, Bob Considine, James Dawson, Richards Vidmer, Joe Williams, Jimmy Powers, Jack Miley, Al Buck, Bill Cunningham, Arch Ward, Anthony Marenghi. Though they didn't have the choice seats, and few whites would ever know any of their names, the cream of black journalism was there, too: Ed Harris, Al Monroe, Ralph Matthews, and Chester Washington, among others.

Swells from the Brook and the Links clubs, along with the patrons of chic restaurants like "21" and the Colony, arrived en masse; twenty or thirty people from the River Club, all dressed to the nines, came up by boat via the East River, docking not far from the stadium. "A Gatsby sort of atmosphere," a participant later called it. The evening was cool, with a pleasant breeze, just chilly enough for women to wear a light wrap over their summer finery. The air was filled with the scent of the gardenias that many of the women wore. A group of Germans came in together and occupied a block of seats. At ringside, Tallulah Bankhead and her husband sat in front of four Schmeling fans. Mrs. Evalyn Walsh McLean, wearing the Hope diamond, filed in, escorted by the Herald Tribune's Herald Tribune's society columnist, Lucius Beebe. La Guardia was one of the latecomers. J. Edgar Hoover was there, along with his confidant Clyde Tolson. So was Thomas E. Dewey, Manhattan's crime-busting prosecutor. On the other end of the social spectrum were the people watching from the rooftops beyond center field. Here, too, space was in short supply, by order of the building department, which was concerned with collapses: admission was by rent receipt only, and the police were checking. Atop 831 Gerard Avenue, someone had placed planks between two chairs so that the small fry could peer down into the stadium. society columnist, Lucius Beebe. La Guardia was one of the latecomers. J. Edgar Hoover was there, along with his confidant Clyde Tolson. So was Thomas E. Dewey, Manhattan's crime-busting prosecutor. On the other end of the social spectrum were the people watching from the rooftops beyond center field. Here, too, space was in short supply, by order of the building department, which was concerned with collapses: admission was by rent receipt only, and the police were checking. Atop 831 Gerard Avenue, someone had placed planks between two chairs so that the small fry could peer down into the stadium.

Black fans were again among the first to take their seats, primarily in the bleachers, bringing with them chicken wings, pork chops, and ham sandwiches. Others, the upper crust of a downtrodden people, appeared closer in, and in the same outfits they'd worn to Pompton Lakes. A German paper described the "rich Harlem Negroes and their gem-laden [juwelenbehangen] [juwelenbehangen] wives." Cab Calloway and Bill Robinson were present. So were the Mills Brothers and the Nicholas Brothers, Louis and Henry Armstrong, Ethel Waters, and Jimmy Rushing. Duke Ellington had postponed hernia surgery just to come. Jack Johnson sported a derby, a blue serge suit, and a cane. Four of Louis's siblings came. So did Walter White; he might have been the head of the most important civil rights organization in the country, but he could manage no better than a seat in the upper deck. But at what other function in American society-or American history, for that matter-could Mrs. John Roxborough and Mrs. Julian Black sit just behind Mr. Vincent Astor and his party? "A sea of faces," the wives." Cab Calloway and Bill Robinson were present. So were the Mills Brothers and the Nicholas Brothers, Louis and Henry Armstrong, Ethel Waters, and Jimmy Rushing. Duke Ellington had postponed hernia surgery just to come. Jack Johnson sported a derby, a blue serge suit, and a cane. Four of Louis's siblings came. So did Walter White; he might have been the head of the most important civil rights organization in the country, but he could manage no better than a seat in the upper deck. But at what other function in American society-or American history, for that matter-could Mrs. John Roxborough and Mrs. Julian Black sit just behind Mr. Vincent Astor and his party? "A sea of faces," the Afro-American Afro-American society correspondent wrote wondrously. "Black faces, brown faces, ivory faces, white faces: a sea of folk. Richly dressed, shabbily frocked, 98-cent dresses, furs worth a king's ransom; the elite, the hoi polloi." society correspondent wrote wondrously. "Black faces, brown faces, ivory faces, white faces: a sea of folk. Richly dressed, shabbily frocked, 98-cent dresses, furs worth a king's ransom; the elite, the hoi polloi."

At 8:25 the ring lights went on. Twelve minutes later, the first preliminary bout began. There wouldn't be time for them all; some would be shunted to after the main event. Mike Jacobs walked around, asking the men in the press rows to take off their hats (the words "no ladies admitted" were stamped on all press tickets). A hundred Western Union wires, seven more than at the second Dempsey-Tunney fight, had been installed. But wires could bear only so much traffic. All night long, foreign correspondents in Warsaw found the international phone lines busy; Louis and Schmeling had them all tied up.

A German reporter watched his American counterparts, sleeves rolled up, cigarettes stuck in the corners of their mouths, talking into telephones or pecking away at their typewriters. The stadium, he wrote, lay "in an unreal gray haze," looking like "the open, greedy jaws of an antediluvian beast." Everything seemed surreal to him, poised somewhere between day and night; tobacco smoke, viscous and heavy, shrouded the giant bowl like fog over a deep ravine. Accustomed to the Teutonic orderliness of the Sportpalast and the Hanseatenhalle, the American-style tumult impressed him. "It is a chaos of voices, an indescribable excitement, a rushing, a chasing, screaming and raving like in a mental asylum," he wrote later. "The people here behave completely differently than at home. They pull out their hair, they roar ceaselessly, they change their bets after every round (sometimes in the middle of the fight), and they rave in such a manner that after a fight they're at least as exhausted as the two boxers in the ring."

The fight appeared sold out, but in fact, paid attendance was only 66,277; even with the freeloaders, employees, and policemen factored in, another 25,000 people could have squeezed into the stadium that night. But most of those who had stayed away, along with sixty million other Americans, were by their radios, awaiting Clem McCarthy. Assisting him this time was Ed Thorgersen, the sports commentator for Fox Movietone News. Listening to them, Radio Guide Radio Guide predicted, would be the largest radio audience in the history of sports, which probably meant the largest radio audience in history. Apart from Hellmis's German play-by-play, the fight was also being broadcast in Spanish and Portuguese, so much of South America would be listening. Around ten, an NBC announcer thanked Lucky Strike cigarettes for relinquishing the slot normally filled by predicted, would be the largest radio audience in the history of sports, which probably meant the largest radio audience in history. Apart from Hellmis's German play-by-play, the fight was also being broadcast in Spanish and Portuguese, so much of South America would be listening. Around ten, an NBC announcer thanked Lucky Strike cigarettes for relinquishing the slot normally filled by Kay Kyser's Kollege of Musical Knowledge. Kay Kyser's Kollege of Musical Knowledge. Then, as if to build the momentousness, a second voice came on, greeting listeners on the "NBC coast-to-coast network, Canada and Honolulu." "And now," it continued, "light, curtain, the ringside, Yankee Stadium and Ed Thorgersen!" After a few seconds, Thorgersen came on. There was no time for small talk. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, the two principals in the greatest bout in a generation are in the ring," was all he said. Then, as if to build the momentousness, a second voice came on, greeting listeners on the "NBC coast-to-coast network, Canada and Honolulu." "And now," it continued, "light, curtain, the ringside, Yankee Stadium and Ed Thorgersen!" After a few seconds, Thorgersen came on. There was no time for small talk. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, the two principals in the greatest bout in a generation are in the ring," was all he said.

In Indianapolis, bar owners along Indiana Avenue had moved their radios out to the sidewalk. On the east side of Los Angeles, blacks gathered up and down Central Avenue. W. E. B. DuBois sat listening with a group of professor friends in Atlanta. Eleanor Roosevelt also listened, almost in self-defense; for days now, all she'd heard about was "the fight." When Jersey Joe Walcott looked out his window in Camden, New Jersey, the streets were deserted. In Chicago, Studs Terkel and his friends stopped rehearsing Waiting for Lefty, Waiting for Lefty, hopped into a car parked in front of the theater, and turned on the radio. Woody Guthrie wandered through the central plaza in Santa Fe, where he "listened in at car doors, trucks, stores, hotels, the hot buildings of sun baked mud, to the Indians, Mexicans, farm and ranch hands, to the artists, cowpokes, tourists on all of their radios." "Let's not have speaking now," the governor of Virginia told a convention of undertakers. "Let's have a radio." Campaigning for governor of Ohio, John W. Bricker had the good sense to time his talk to the Republicans in Coshocton to end before the opening bell. In Kingston, Jamaica, fight fans too poor to own radios were invited to listen outside the Biltmore House, and to enjoy curried goat afterward. The high school band in Kaukauna, Wisconsin, postponed its summer concert a night. An ill-timed thunderstorm in nearby Neenah made radio reception treacherous. The field hands on Earl Carter's peanut farm in Plains, Georgia, listened on his porch along with Carter's eldest son, thirteen-year-old Jimmy. hopped into a car parked in front of the theater, and turned on the radio. Woody Guthrie wandered through the central plaza in Santa Fe, where he "listened in at car doors, trucks, stores, hotels, the hot buildings of sun baked mud, to the Indians, Mexicans, farm and ranch hands, to the artists, cowpokes, tourists on all of their radios." "Let's not have speaking now," the governor of Virginia told a convention of undertakers. "Let's have a radio." Campaigning for governor of Ohio, John W. Bricker had the good sense to time his talk to the Republicans in Coshocton to end before the opening bell. In Kingston, Jamaica, fight fans too poor to own radios were invited to listen outside the Biltmore House, and to enjoy curried goat afterward. The high school band in Kaukauna, Wisconsin, postponed its summer concert a night. An ill-timed thunderstorm in nearby Neenah made radio reception treacherous. The field hands on Earl Carter's peanut farm in Plains, Georgia, listened on his porch along with Carter's eldest son, thirteen-year-old Jimmy.

In a roadhouse near Lake Mashpee on Cape Cod, black Portuguese cranberry pickers prepared to cheer for Louis. The boys at the Broad Channel Baths near Rockaway, New York, left their lindy-hopping girlfriends and, sixteen-ounce beer bottles in hand, went to the parking lot to listen. In the Bronx, fourteen-year-old Arthur Donovan, Jr., sat down by the radio with a bag of peanuts. In Philadelphia, Angelo Dundee, sixteen, went to listen at the local firehouse, while in Detroit, Eddie Futch, destined, like Dundee, to become one of boxing's most famous trainers, listened in a locked office at the Brewster Center, where the young Louis had once trained. In Lafayette, Alabama, members of Louis's extended family gathered in a black restaurant. In the Searcy State Hospital for the Negro Insane, Louis's father listened in bed. In his hand was an autographed picture inscribed, "To my father, Monroe Barrow, from his son, Joe Louis Barrow?" Marva listened on St. Nicholas Avenue in Harlem, in the apartment of a family friend, a steward for the Pennsylvania Railroad. She fiddled with the dial, just "to show she was absolutely composed."

Anyone scheduling something opposite the fight obviously had to make some accommodations. In Charleston, South Carolina, the Palmetto Theater pledged to interrupt Joy of Living, Joy of Living, starring Irene Dunne and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., for as long as the fight lasted. Wrestling fans in Mobile, Alabama-whites in the 40- and 60-cent seats, blacks in the 25-cent ones-were also promised a blow-by-blow account. A black church in Chicago revamped its schedule so that all who ordinarily prayed on Wednesdays "could come and root for Joe." At a "championship ball" for blacks in Brooklyn, there would be dancing until three, with a short time-out while, as the starring Irene Dunne and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., for as long as the fight lasted. Wrestling fans in Mobile, Alabama-whites in the 40- and 60-cent seats, blacks in the 25-cent ones-were also promised a blow-by-blow account. A black church in Chicago revamped its schedule so that all who ordinarily prayed on Wednesdays "could come and root for Joe." At a "championship ball" for blacks in Brooklyn, there would be dancing until three, with a short time-out while, as the New York Age New York Age put it, Louis "knock[ed] Der Moxie loose from his dental work." In Manhattan, the Muzak Corporation made plans to pipe in the broadcast to hotels and restaurants serving thirty thousand people on an ordinary night. Throughout crowded apartment blocks radios blared, and with windows open, the broadcast bounced around courtyards and reverberated along empty streets. put it, Louis "knock[ed] Der Moxie loose from his dental work." In Manhattan, the Muzak Corporation made plans to pipe in the broadcast to hotels and restaurants serving thirty thousand people on an ordinary night. Throughout crowded apartment blocks radios blared, and with windows open, the broadcast bounced around courtyards and reverberated along empty streets.

Gold and diamond miners listened in the jungles of British Guiana. Jurors at a murder trial in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad, had a radio installed where they deliberated. South Africans hoped atmospheric turbulence wouldn't make Clem McCarthy even less intelligible than he normally was to non-Americans; those who couldn't understand him would have to wait for the fight extra the Rand Daily Mail Rand Daily Mail planned to publish. Harry, who presided over the New York Bar in Paris, promised patrons he would tune in. "The world will hold you responsible for failure to spot announcers equipped to give sensational account of this epoch making event no kidding," an anxious Mexican official wired NBC. The fight was not to be broadcast in Italy, the planned to publish. Harry, who presided over the New York Bar in Paris, promised patrons he would tune in. "The world will hold you responsible for failure to spot announcers equipped to give sensational account of this epoch making event no kidding," an anxious Mexican official wired NBC. The fight was not to be broadcast in Italy, the Chicago Daily News Chicago Daily News reported, perhaps because Mussolini feared embarrassment "should a Negro defeat a Fascist." And sitting by their reported, perhaps because Mussolini feared embarrassment "should a Negro defeat a Fascist." And sitting by their Volksemfanger, Volksemfanger, Germans again awaited Hellmis. A special fight broadcast had begun two hours earlier, at one a.m. Berlin time, featuring some commentary, a statement from Metzner, a reading from Hellmis's book on Schmeling, and two live bands. A reporter for a Yiddish paper in Warsaw was among those listening. "There was no doubt whatsoever that victory was on their side," he later wrote; at stake was "the absolute survival and honor of the nation." Like the other Jews of Warsaw, he was pulling for the "Schvartser Bombardier." Hitler was reportedly listening at his Bavarian retreat. Germans again awaited Hellmis. A special fight broadcast had begun two hours earlier, at one a.m. Berlin time, featuring some commentary, a statement from Metzner, a reading from Hellmis's book on Schmeling, and two live bands. A reporter for a Yiddish paper in Warsaw was among those listening. "There was no doubt whatsoever that victory was on their side," he later wrote; at stake was "the absolute survival and honor of the nation." Like the other Jews of Warsaw, he was pulling for the "Schvartser Bombardier." Hitler was reportedly listening at his Bavarian retreat.

Several movie theaters in Berlin planned to play the radio broadcast. In Karlsruhe, a boxing exhibition would carry on until the fight began. The mandatory closing hour for pubs had once more been moved from 3 a.m. to 5:45 a.m., though the anticipation had begun long before then. At around midnight, a reporter for the Angriff Angriff motored around Berlin. "Behind the windows in almost every apartment, the lights were burning," he wrote. "In the west, in the south, in the north; on the Kurfustendamm, in Friedenau, in Potsdamer Strasse, and around Alex [Alexanderplatz]. We turned on the radio in the car. For the time being, music. Up above, behind the windows, they are just as impatient as us." He called to wake up a number of people, but they were all up already, and indignant: "'No time. Listening to the broadcast. Call after the fight.' Click. Hung up!" Though the owner and many regulars were in New York, seats at Schmeling's table in the Roxy-Bar on Rankeplatz remained at a premium. Sitting there were, among others, Goebbels's deputy, Hans Hinkel, and the man who directed motored around Berlin. "Behind the windows in almost every apartment, the lights were burning," he wrote. "In the west, in the south, in the north; on the Kurfustendamm, in Friedenau, in Potsdamer Strasse, and around Alex [Alexanderplatz]. We turned on the radio in the car. For the time being, music. Up above, behind the windows, they are just as impatient as us." He called to wake up a number of people, but they were all up already, and indignant: "'No time. Listening to the broadcast. Call after the fight.' Click. Hung up!" Though the owner and many regulars were in New York, seats at Schmeling's table in the Roxy-Bar on Rankeplatz remained at a premium. Sitting there were, among others, Goebbels's deputy, Hans Hinkel, and the man who directed Schmelings Sieg, Schmelings Sieg, Hans Zerlett, along with athletes, actors, and journalists. The only Schmeling on the premises was a cardboard cutout; earlier that evening it had toppled over. Anny Ondra planned to spend this fight night at home, and would spare herself another nerve-racking broadcast. What worried her most, she told the Hans Zerlett, along with athletes, actors, and journalists. The only Schmeling on the premises was a cardboard cutout; earlier that evening it had toppled over. Anny Ondra planned to spend this fight night at home, and would spare herself another nerve-racking broadcast. What worried her most, she told the Angriff, Angriff, was "the murderous American heat," in which a black man was in his element. Her maid was to listen for her, and give her the results in the morning. At a small bar in the western part of Berlin-and at hundreds like it-a man ordered perhaps his sixth cup of coffee as zero hour approached. At Berlin's Hildesheimer Yeshiva, members of what would turn out to be Germany's last crop of rabbinical students, hiding from both the authorities and their rabbi, sat by a crystal set someone had built just for the fight, preparing to pull for Louis. Yet many Jews around them pulled for Schmeling. They still thought of themselves as Germans first. was "the murderous American heat," in which a black man was in his element. Her maid was to listen for her, and give her the results in the morning. At a small bar in the western part of Berlin-and at hundreds like it-a man ordered perhaps his sixth cup of coffee as zero hour approached. At Berlin's Hildesheimer Yeshiva, members of what would turn out to be Germany's last crop of rabbinical students, hiding from both the authorities and their rabbi, sat by a crystal set someone had built just for the fight, preparing to pull for Louis. Yet many Jews around them pulled for Schmeling. They still thought of themselves as Germans first.

Shortly before three in the morning, the sound of military music came over German radio. Then Hellmis's first words from New York crackled through. "Hallo Berlin.... Hallo Deutschland.... Hallo Deutschland. Hier ist das Yankee Stadium in New York," "Hallo Berlin.... Hallo Deutschland.... Hallo Deutschland. Hier ist das Yankee Stadium in New York," he began. "The moment has finally come," he went on. "This isn't a stadium anymore.... This is an overflowing, feverish melting pot full of passions let loose, and if one should throw a match I am sure the whole stadium with all its people will be blown up into the air with one single explosion.... A fever rages in the veins of all these people." In fact, the fans had quickly tired of the preliminaries, and were shouting for the main event. Once Al Bray and Abe Simon finished poking each other in the ring, the crowd roared with delight and rose to stretch, as if readying itself for the serious business at hand. Two boys selling sodas spotted a pair of empty seats at ringside and abandoned all thoughts of work. he began. "The moment has finally come," he went on. "This isn't a stadium anymore.... This is an overflowing, feverish melting pot full of passions let loose, and if one should throw a match I am sure the whole stadium with all its people will be blown up into the air with one single explosion.... A fever rages in the veins of all these people." In fact, the fans had quickly tired of the preliminaries, and were shouting for the main event. Once Al Bray and Abe Simon finished poking each other in the ring, the crowd roared with delight and rose to stretch, as if readying itself for the serious business at hand. Two boys selling sodas spotted a pair of empty seats at ringside and abandoned all thoughts of work.

Before most bouts, Louis shadowboxed for five or ten minutes in his dressing room; this time he did so for forty minutes, hoping to enter the ring revved up. Blackburn put a terry-cloth robe on him, then on top of that the familiar one of blue and red silk, with "Joe Louis" stitched on the back, so that Louis would retain as much of that heat as possible. Roxbor-ough, who smoked and chewed his way through numerous cigars during most fights, had come well stocked tonight. "You'll need only one," Louis assured him, "and you won't have time to light it well. That Schmeling is going to think he's in there with a tiger tonight." Mike Jacobs stopped by Louis's dressing room; reports of what he said there differ. In one version, he recounted a promise he'd made to the anti-Nazi protesters: that they'd be pleased with the outcome. "Don't make a sucker out of me," he then told Louis. "Give this guy the beating of his life-but quick." In another version, he called Schmeling "a Nazi son-of-a-bitch" and added, "Murder that bum and don't make an asshole out of me."

Louis made his way to the ring, "prancing and dancing as a Man O' War at the bit." He was the first to enter, at two minutes to ten, preceded by handlers in white sweaters, encircled by bodyguards and policemen. His reception was rather tame, perhaps because so many of his fans were so remote. "Did you hear the applause when the world champion appeared?" Hellmis gloated. Louis sequestered himself in his corner, the closest to third base, flexing his arms, rubbing his feet into the resin. With him, as usual, were Blackburn, Roxborough, and Black; joining them were Henry Armstrong's manager, Eddie Mead, along with trainers Larry Amadee and Manny Seamon. To Hellmis, Mead's presence showed how insecure Louis felt. But two years earlier, Louis had entered the ring languidly, nonchalantly, indifferently. Now, drenched from his exercising, he radiated a tense, febrile energy.

Then it was Schmeling's turn. Years later, he compared his walk through Yankee Stadium's infield that night-out of the dugout, down the baseline toward home plate, then straight over the pitcher's mound toward the ring-to running a gantlet; though twenty-five policemen escorted him, he wrote, he was pelted by cigarette butts, ashtrays, banana peels, and paper cups, and pulled a towel over his head for protection. All of this weighed heavily on him once he got into the ring, he was to claim, and upset his concentration. But in fact Schmeling would have had to walk through only the most expensive seats; anyone inclined to heave something would have been too far away. Certainly no reporter present that night saw anything of the kind, nor any such hostility when he stepped into the ring. "No challenger in memory of the oldest scribes was ever given such a welcome," one veteran fight writer reported. "Everyone is shouting and applauding," Hellmis declared. They were, one Berlin newspaper explained, the cheers of every white in the stadium. Schmeling looked positively cheerful when he climbed between the ropes; Bill Cunningham of the Boston Post Boston Post described him as "the picture of suavity, condescension and confidence" as he acknowledged the ovation. He bowed gallantly to the four corners of the crowd, then went over to Louis, whose back was toward him, nearly hitting the hanging microphone along the way. He tapped him on the shoulder playfully, then tapped him again. Louis finally turned-"expressionless, unmoved," Hellmis told the radio audience-and briefly shook Schmeling's outstretched hand, before quickly turning back away. "Max sits in his corner, unusually serious and composed after he first greeted the masses with his smile," Hellmis observed. Schmeling stared ahead, he said, "darkly, decidedly, energetically." described him as "the picture of suavity, condescension and confidence" as he acknowledged the ovation. He bowed gallantly to the four corners of the crowd, then went over to Louis, whose back was toward him, nearly hitting the hanging microphone along the way. He tapped him on the shoulder playfully, then tapped him again. Louis finally turned-"expressionless, unmoved," Hellmis told the radio audience-and briefly shook Schmeling's outstretched hand, before quickly turning back away. "Max sits in his corner, unusually serious and composed after he first greeted the masses with his smile," Hellmis observed. Schmeling stared ahead, he said, "darkly, decidedly, energetically."

Harry Balogh took his place in the center of the ring and began his introductions. He called for Tony Galento, then Sharkey, then Dempsey, then Braddock and Tunney and Tommy Farr. And then, "last but far from least," the man who was to meet the winner, Max Baer. Baer received loud cheers, Bronx and otherwise. "Do you hear the booing?" Hellmis asked his listeners. "The public does not want him."* Though both Jack Johnson and John Henry Lewis, the light-heavyweight champion, who was black, were at ringside, neither was introduced; again, only the black press seemed to notice. Louis danced, flexed his arms, punched the Bronx night. Normally, his face was round, soft, babyish, emotionless. But now, it seemed older and more taut-taut with rage. Though both Jack Johnson and John Henry Lewis, the light-heavyweight champion, who was black, were at ringside, neither was introduced; again, only the black press seemed to notice. Louis danced, flexed his arms, punched the Bronx night. Normally, his face was round, soft, babyish, emotionless. But now, it seemed older and more taut-taut with rage.

Representatives of the opposing camps-Blackburn for Louis, Doc Casey for Schmeling-looked on as the gloves were placed on the two fighters. This allowed Hellmis to remind his listeners how Louis had pressed unsuccessfully for gloves with larger thumbs, the better to gouge out Schmeling's eyes. Hellmis explained that Schmeling's American manager-unnamed, as usual-had been disqualified; Jacobs had been placed in a front-row seat behind a neutral corner, presumably to keep him out of kibitzing range. The bell rang twice, and Balogh announced the ring officials, including, once more as referee, Arthur Donovan. Then, in his portentous, stentorian bellow, as if he did not fully trust the microphone, sprinkling ellipses liberally between his hyperenunciated words, he got to the principals. "This is the featured attraction, fifteen rounds, for the world's heavyweight championship," Balogh began. "Weighing 193, wearing purple trunks, outstanding contender for heavyweight honors, the former heavyweight titleholder, Max ... Schmeling." He got the German pronunciation right: "Mox Schmayling." The German arose from his stool, gathered his bathrobe, walked forward a few steps, put his gloved right hand over his chest, and bowed in courtly European fashion to two sides of Yankee Stadium. The crowd roared. Predictions that Schmeling would get "the biggest Bronx cheer in the history of the Bronx cheering section" didn't materialize. Eyewitnesses-white and black, German and American-were struck instead by how warmly he was received. Schmeling smiled at what was clearly an unequaled and, in fact, rather surprising display of American sportsmanship.

The bell sounded two more times, sternly summoning the house back to order. "Weighing 198 and three-quarters, wearing black trunks, the famous Detroit Brown Bomber, world's heavyweight champion, Joe Louis." Louis arose, skipped out a few steps, then turned around. There were lots of cheers, but mixed in were some boos-some undoubtedly racial, some just the usual raspberries for the favorite, some from Schmeling boosters, some for Louis's recent, disappointing performances. The crowd, one embittered black reporter wrote afterward, "saw fit to give Schmeling, a Nazi, a greater hand than it did an American-born world champion." Balogh then pointed to Donovan, who tugged at his trousers, made his way to the center of the ring, and readied himself for another ring ritual, one that now reverberated throughout the stadium and over the air. Louis, Black, and Blackburn huddled around him on one side, Schmeling, Machon, and Casey on the other. As they assembled, Thor-gersen handed the microphone to McCarthy, who, unlike Hellmis, had no time for pleasantries, or even a greeting. "Aaaaaaaaand, boxing fans, Arthur Donovan has the two principals in the ring," he growled. "I want you to listen to their instructions. Arthur Donovan speaking to the two fighters, with their seconds surrounding them."

"Now how do you men feel? All right? Fine," Donovan said quickly, mechanistically, without waiting for any response. "Now I want to impress upon you men now, of the terrific responsibility that you have in this ring tonight." He talked about how the fans in the stadium, plus the untold multitudes sitting by their radios, expected one of the greatest fights ever. "Now let us not disappoint them," he said. He warned them about low blows, then turned to the seconds. "Now at no time now in this contest do I want anybody in this ring, outside of the minute rest," he said, pointing his finger for emphasis. "The first man that even sticks his head through those ropes, something drastic is going to happen." Schmeling looked directly at Louis; Louis did not look back. Blackburn removed Louis's blue robe, only to reveal the white robe underneath. Hellmis thought it a fashion statement rather than a reflection on Louis's state of readiness. "Oh, how pompously Joe Louis is dressed up," he told his audience. "First a white woolen dressing gown and over it a blue-silken robe." "Now, let's go," Donovan concluded, "and may the best man win."

"The old slogan of boxing, 'May the best man win,' and she's about to start, with this Yankee Stadium packed to the doors! There isn't an empty seat!" McCarthy croaked, even though it wasn't quite true. As the ring microphone was elevated and the two men retreated to their corners, a reporter near ringside heard a contented sigh. It came from Mike Jacobs, who was, for the moment at least, at rest. The skies had cleared, his house was nearly full, his two fighters were healthy and at hand. His show could now get under way, and the tensions that had, as one British reporter said, "wrinkled his forehead like a washboard" could begin to flow out of him. For a few seconds, the only noises came from the crowd. "Unchain them!" someone shouted. "Kill that Nazi, Joe! Kill him!" another voice rang out. In the distant seats, fans struggled simply to see. "It seemed that each man and woman was straining forward to peer at a colorful puppet show," Richard Wright later wrote. Louis continued to dance about. He "had the look of a murderer in his eye," one eyewitness later recalled. "He didn't lick his lips or do anything." To Ernest Hemingway, Louis seemed "nervous and jumpy as a doped race horse." "They've got that guy hopped up," someone remarked. Schmeling stood still, taking last-minute instructions from Machon. Hellmis reminded his listeners that Louis expected to win in two rounds. But to Schmeling that was just talk, he explained; after the beating he'd taken the last time, surely Louis would be careful, get a sense of things, wait a few rounds before trying anything drastic. "They're ready with the bell just about to ring," McCarthy said. And ring it did, at precisely the moment McCarthy uttered the word, at 10:08 p.m. To the radio audience, it sounded loud and clear and true; to the boxers themselves, it was still not quite right. "And there we are," McCarthy declared. "The gong!" said Hellmis. "The fight for the world heavyweight championship is on."

For one brief, immeasurable interval nothing happened, except an ineffable surge of mass anticipation. Baseball had its innings; football, hockey, soccer, and basketball their clocks. All of them had teams, and all lasted a couple of hours, come what may. Here, two men were about to square off, in something that could end at any moment. There was no sitting back. "This is the million-dollar thrill of sports," one reporter explained. "This is a second pregnant with drama and suspense, and no matter how often it occurs you never forget the strange shivers that sweep over you. This is The Big Fight." And after two years of anticipation, this was the biggest big fight of them all.

Throughout the stadium, people leaned forward. "One hundred and sixty thousand knees became uncontrollable," one man wrote. To one apprehensive Louis fan, Schmeling suddenly looked too fierce and powerful for anyone to handle by himself, and the man felt like jumping out of his seat, springing into the ring, and lending his hero a hand. As the action was about to begin, wrote a reporter for the Philadelphia Tribune, Philadelphia Tribune, "a silence, like the calm of Heaven, prevailed over Harlem." And not only there, but all over America, and especially black America. "Fourteen million brown men, women and children cussed and prayed in 14 million ways for Joe to come through," wrote Frank Marshall Davis. "Probably never before in American history were so many black voices silent." "a silence, like the calm of Heaven, prevailed over Harlem." And not only there, but all over America, and especially black America. "Fourteen million brown men, women and children cussed and prayed in 14 million ways for Joe to come through," wrote Frank Marshall Davis. "Probably never before in American history were so many black voices silent."

Schmeling walked out of his corner matter-of-factly, like a businessman going to an appointment. Louis, who normally came out slowly, shuffling, feinting, jabbing, all but bounded out now, as if eager to complete something he relished, meeting Schmeling three-quarters of the way across the ring. The two had feinted for only seven seconds before Louis hit, and hurt, Schmeling with a left jab, then threw two more that snapped the German's head back. Then came a left hook to the body. The two then fell into a clinch. Already, Donovan could see that Louis was keeping up his left after jabbing; he seemed to have learned the only thing he had still needed to know. Louis's chastened fans assumed nothing. "Look out, Joe!" they shouted. "Watch out, Joe!"

Barely twenty seconds had passed-Machon was not even fully down the steps-when there came a deafening roar. In a flash, Louis had Schmeling against the ropes, connecting with a series of devastating blows to the head and body, so fast that the human eye, let alone the voice, could not keep up. "And Louis hooks a left to Max's head quickly!" McCarthy exclaimed. "And shoots over a hard right to Max's head! Louis, a left to Max's jaw! A right to his head! Louis with the old one-two! The first the left and then the right! He's landed more blows in this one round than he landed in any five rounds of the other fight!" Donovan had never seen anything like it: after that first left to the head, Schmeling's face seemed to swell out of proportion and turn a faint bluish green. Then came the first right. It was so hard that Schmeling's head seemed to spin, then "bobbed up and down like a Halloween apple in a tub." The contest was not yet thirty seconds old.

Hellmis had to admit it: Louis had started quickly, and Schmeling had all he could handle just covering himself. But he emphasized the positive: Schmeling had neutralized Louis by clinching, then breaking loose with splendid footwork. And he had gotten in a punch to the jaw through Louis's lowered guard, but Louis had been backing away when it landed. Some Germans stood up and applauded the punch. So, too, did some white Americans. "These folks at once sensed another victory-not for the Germans but for the white race," a black reporter noted bitterly. Louis hesitated, but only for a second. Had he remained traumatized by the last fight, were the "Indian sign" still on him, even that single palsied punch might have triggered something. Instead, he stepped forward relentlessly, and kept at the German. It was just as Blackburn always said: if you get hit, hit the other fellow before he can hit you again.

Schmeling's face was already marked when, nearly a minute into the fight, Louis chased him back toward the ropes once more. They fell into another clinch. Coming out of it, Louis hit Schmeling again. Then he hit the German with two more straight lefts to the face and a right to the temple before they clinched once more. Louis stalked Schmeling, searching for an opening. Back to the ropes, he missed a roundhouse left. Then he delivered a right uppercut, a left, and a devastating right to Schmeling's suddenly defenseless face. Schmeling staggered backward. As he twisted along the ropes to avoid the blows to the head, Louis, his gloves a brownish blur, landed a series of body punches-to the side, to the stomach, and then to the left kidney. "The Negro swung, hooked, swung and hooked at him as though he were the big bag," Hemingway wrote. Even in the press box, where partisan cheering was forbidden, there were cries of excitement, astonishment, horror. Schmeling grimaced, letting out a high-pitched cry that echoed throughout the stadium. Some heard "Oh! Oh!" To others, it was "Genug! Genug!" "Genug! Genug!"-Enough! Enough! "I thought in my mind, 'How's that, Mr. Super-race?'" Louis later said. "I was glad he was hurt. That's what I wanted." Many, Louis among them, thought the scream had come not from Schmeling but from a woman at ringside."Did you hear that?" Hype Igoe of the Journal-American Journal-American asked the man at his side. "Did I hear it?" he replied. "I felt the punch!" So terrifying was the sound-"half human, half animal"-that some fans reached instinctively for their hats, as if Louis was about to come for them, too. Donovan had never heard anything like it, and it frightened even him. But to others it was welcome indeed. "Sweetest music I ever heard in my life," Blackburn said afterward. "Sounded like a stuck pig." asked the man at his side. "Did I hear it?" he replied. "I felt the punch!" So terrifying was the sound-"half human, half animal"-that some fans reached instinctively for their hats, as if Louis was about to come for them, too. Donovan had never heard anything like it, and it frightened even him. But to others it was welcome indeed. "Sweetest music I ever heard in my life," Blackburn said afterward. "Sounded like a stuck pig."

Immobilized by the body blow, Schmeling then absorbed five colossal punches to his face. Framing his target with his left glove, Louis concluded the fusillade with two mighty rights. Schmeling sank, his knees collapsing halfway to the canvas. "Schmeling is going down!" McCarthy shrieked. "But he's held to his feet, held to the ropes, looked to his corner in helplessness!" A minute and a half had passed. "Hitler's wilted pet looked like a soft piece of molasses candy left out in the sun," Richard Wright wrote. "He drooped over the ropes, his eyes glassy, his chin nestling in a strand of rope, his face blank and senseless and his widely-heralded powerful right arm hanging ironically useless." Hellmis, meanwhile, sounded "like a spinning wheel." Never had he had to describe Schmeling in trouble, and he wasn't sure what to do; it was, a Jewish listener in Warsaw wrote, as if Hellmis himself was absorbing Louis's blows. He, too, had lost his bearings, and he now devoted himself more to rescuing his beloved Maxe than to describing what had befallen him, lapsing into importuning incoherence. "Max is backed up against the ropes ... to the right, Max.... Now Louis throws another one, misses ... moves to the side.... Bang! Maxe! Go back! Um Himmels willen! Um Himmels willen! [For heaven's sake!], Maxe! Maxe! Joe Louis! Stop him! Hold on, Maxe! Hold yourself! The rope! Max Schmeling stands at the rope, holds himself. Max is on his knee. Gets up again, stands..." Hellmis's cries, a listener in Prague wrote, were "like the shrieking of a mother watching her son die." It was, as the [For heaven's sake!], Maxe! Maxe! Joe Louis! Stop him! Hold on, Maxe! Hold yourself! The rope! Max Schmeling stands at the rope, holds himself. Max is on his knee. Gets up again, stands..." Hellmis's cries, a listener in Prague wrote, were "like the shrieking of a mother watching her son die." It was, as the 12 Uhr-Blatt 12 Uhr-Blatt of Berlin wrote afterward, the sound of utter despair, of shock. It was an SOS. Hellmis was making the unimaginable unintelligible; Germans simply could not fathom what they were hearing. of Berlin wrote afterward, the sound of utter despair, of shock. It was an SOS. Hellmis was making the unimaginable unintelligible; Germans simply could not fathom what they were hearing. "Unmoglich!" "Unmoglich!" they cried. "Impossible!" they cried. "Impossible!"

Donovan rushed over to the two men. Though Schmeling technically remained on his feet, only the ropes were keeping him aloft, and to the referee, it was a knockdown; for one thing, he feared that another of Louis's blows at that moment might kill Schmeling. Donovan shooed Louis away and, his arms raised, began a count. But he'd only reached one when Schmeling righted himself. Donovan gestured for the fight to continue, and Schmeling moved forward tentatively. Puzzled momentarily by what the referee had done, Louis, expressionless as always, resumed his work. He stung Schmeling with another vicious right that sent him sprawling, then rolling over. The knockdown timekeeper fumbled for his mallet. This time Schmeling was up at four. Two years earlier Schmeling had pooh-poohed Louis for failing to take a count: a sure sign of his inexperience, he sniffed. Now, in his own befuddled state, he had done precisely the same thing. From that alone Donovan knew Schmeling couldn't last much longer.

"Louis attacks again!" Hellmis shrieked. "Aber das ist doch Wahnsinn! "Aber das ist doch Wahnsinn! [Why, that is madness!]" "And Schmeling ... is... down! Schmeling is down!" McCarthy exclaimed. "The count is four. It's..." While Hellmis managed to say little, McCarthy tried capturing it all, but even with a rapid-fire delivery honed at hundreds of racetracks, he could not keep up; no horse had ever done so much so fast. It was the crowd's muffled, dense, thunderous roars, and not what McCarthy blurted out a millisecond later, that told the story. "With each blow you imagined Louis saying: 'So I fouled you, eh?' ... Boom! ... 'So you gave me a beating I'll never forget, eh?' ... Boom!" Joe Williams wrote. Black America could now exhale. "Laughter roared through the land like mighty Niagara breaking through a cardboard dike," Frank Marshall Davis wrote. So startling was what was unfolding at the stadium that not everyone knew how to react. To Richard Wright, it was all "so stunning that even cheering was out of place." [Why, that is madness!]" "And Schmeling ... is... down! Schmeling is down!" McCarthy exclaimed. "The count is four. It's..." While Hellmis managed to say little, McCarthy tried capturing it all, but even with a rapid-fire delivery honed at hundreds of racetracks, he could not keep up; no horse had ever done so much so fast. It was the crowd's muffled, dense, thunderous roars, and not what McCarthy blurted out a millisecond later, that told the story. "With each blow you imagined Louis saying: 'So I fouled you, eh?' ... Boom! ... 'So you gave me a beating I'll never forget, eh?' ... Boom!" Joe Williams wrote. Black America could now exhale. "Laughter roared through the land like mighty Niagara breaking through a cardboard dike," Frank Marshall Davis wrote. So startling was what was unfolding at the stadium that not everyone knew how to react. To Richard Wright, it was all "so stunning that even cheering was out of place."

"Joe Louis is in his corner," said Hellmis. "Steh auf, Maxe! Maxe! "Steh auf, Maxe! Maxe! [Get up, Max! Max!]" ... No, he is down for good.... No, he gets up!" And Schmeling was up again, but only for an instant. Another powerful combination again sent him to his knees. "A red drool dribbled from his lips and formed a crimson beard of bubbles on his chin," wrote Austen Lake of the [Get up, Max! Max!]" ... No, he is down for good.... No, he gets up!" And Schmeling was up again, but only for an instant. Another powerful combination again sent him to his knees. "A red drool dribbled from his lips and formed a crimson beard of bubbles on his chin," wrote Austen Lake of the Boston Evening American. Boston Evening American. Again, Schmeling was up too quickly, this time at one. Donovan wiped the resin off Schmeling's gloves with his shirt before jumping out of Louis's way. "Joe Louis throws himself again at him," a horrified Hellmis declared. McCarthy, meantime, was rattling off the punches. "Right and left to the head! A left to the jaw! A right to the head! And Donovan is watching carefully! Louis measures him. Right to the body! A left hook to the jaw! And Schmeling is down!" For the third time, Schmeling was on the canvas, this time on his side, trying desperately to get back up. Again, Schmeling was up too quickly, this time at one. Donovan wiped the resin off Schmeling's gloves with his shirt before jumping out of Louis's way. "Joe Louis throws himself again at him," a horrified Hellmis declared. McCarthy, meantime, was rattling off the punches. "Right and left to the head! A left to the jaw! A right to the head! And Donovan is watching carefully! Louis measures him. Right to the body! A left hook to the jaw! And Schmeling is down!" For the third time, Schmeling was on the canvas, this time on his side, trying desperately to get back up.

Louis's final right to the face, the Herald Tribune's Herald Tribune's Caswell Adams wrote, seemed "to smash it like a baseball bat would an apple." Louis was Louis again, "abandoning all science and newfangled lessons, fighting as he must have done it in the Alabama canebrakes, as men have fought since men have borne hatred toward one another." Even some of the reporters were shouting, "Stop it!" Machon, his face "a pale study in vicarious suffering," then sprang into action. As the two men fought in the ring, another fight had been under way: twice already, Machon had tried to throw in the towel, and twice, Doc Casey had stopped him. Now he could no longer be restrained. He took his towel-lifted from the Concourse Plaza Hotel that afternoon-and threw it into the ring. It floated down "like a seagull" and almost landed on Donovan. Caswell Adams wrote, seemed "to smash it like a baseball bat would an apple." Louis was Louis again, "abandoning all science and newfangled lessons, fighting as he must have done it in the Alabama canebrakes, as men have fought since men have borne hatred toward one another." Even some of the reporters were shouting, "Stop it!" Machon, his face "a pale study in vicarious suffering," then sprang into action. As the two men fought in the ring, another fight had been under way: twice already, Machon had tried to throw in the towel, and twice, Doc Casey had stopped him. Now he could no longer be restrained. He took his towel-lifted from the Concourse Plaza Hotel that afternoon-and threw it into the ring. It floated down "like a seagull" and almost landed on Donovan. "Das Handtuch! "Das Handtuch! [The towel!]" Hellmis shouted. [The towel!]" Hellmis shouted. "Max Schmeling ist geschlagen! Max Schmeling ist geschlagen! "Max Schmeling ist geschlagen! Max Schmeling ist geschlagen! [Max Schmeling is beaten! Max Schmeling is beaten!]" "Schmeling was no longer a man," Gallico later wrote. "He was a broken, glass-eyed, silly, blubbering thing." [Max Schmeling is beaten! Max Schmeling is beaten!]" "Schmeling was no longer a man," Gallico later wrote. "He was a broken, glass-eyed, silly, blubbering thing."

Technically, boxing's classic gesture of surrender was no longer recognized in New York State, and Donovan grabbed the towel, crumpled it up, and threw it contemptuously toward the green, velvet-covered ropes. It landed on the middle strand, where it hung limply, much the way Schmeling himself had hung only a few seconds before. Then, as Schmeling, on his hands and knees, tried once again to stand up, Machon dashed into the ring. That did have legal standing: it was against the rules, just as Donovan had reminded everyone beforehand. The referee shoved Machon aside, but it was all quite pointless. He counted to five, then declared the fight over. McCarthy struggled to disentangle what had happened, and began a count of his own. "The count is five," he cried. And there it stayed for several seconds, before he resumed. "Five! Six! Seven! Eight! The men are in the ring! The fight is over, on a technical knockout! Max Schmeling is beaten in one round!" There was another fleeting, timeless interval, this one born of incomprehension rather than anticipation. Handlers and policemen clambered through the ropes. McCarthy fobbed off the microphone on Thorgersen and climbed into the ring as well. "Joe Louis is practically smothered by seconds, handlers, photographers, policemen, and about fifty others who've crowded into the spotlighted square," Thorgersen said. "You have a feeling as you see Joe sitting there now for the first time he believes himself to be the undisputed world heavyweight champ. And the beating he handed Schmeling tonight in that one terrific, frightful round certainly dispels any doubt as to who is the preeminent heavyweight boxer in this world today."

Donovan moved seamlessly from officiating to ministering, cradling Schmeling with his arm and, with the help of Machon, Casey, and one of Louis's seconds, dragging his bloody carcass back to the corner he'd left so confidently only three minutes earlier, kicking up a small cloud of resin along the way. Schmeling was quivering; someone squeezed a sponge over his head, "and the water ran past the corners of his mouth in little pale red streams." As Machon slapped his face, Schmeling came to. What was the matter? he asked. Why were they not fighting? It was all over, Machon told him: He had lost. Meantime, Joe Jacobs climbed through the ropes. "He was-for the first time in his life-speechless," someone wrote.

In the stands there was bedlam. Tallulah Bankhead sprang to her feet and turned to the Schmeling fans behind her. "I told you so, you sons of bitches!" she screamed. Whites were hugging blacks. "The happiest people I saw at this fight were not the Negroes but the Jews," a black writer observed. "In the row in front of me there was a great line of Jews-and they had the best time of all their Jewish lives." Inside 938 St. Nicholas Avenue, Marva let out a squeal. "Wasn't it swell?" she asked. Champagne was then served, though the abstemious Mrs. Louis had none of it. "My daddy told me that he was fighting this fight not only for me but for his mother and the Race," she later said. Elsewhere, everywhere, people leaped out of their chairs. "Beat the hell out of the damn German bastard!" W. E. B. DuBois, a lifelong Germanophile who rarely swore, shouted gleefully in Atlanta. In Hollywood, Bette Davis jumped up and down; she had won $66 in the Warner Bros. fight pool. Joseph Mitchell of the World-Telegram, World-Telegram, who stood to collect $16 in his pool, also jumped up, kicking over a cabinet with his precious-and, he learned, fragile-Bessie Smith records. "Everybody danced and sang," Woody Guthrie wrote from Santa Fe. "I watched the people laugh, walk, sing, do all sorts of dances. I heard 'Hooray for Joe Louis!' 'To hell with Max Schmeling' in Indian, Mexican, Spanish, all kinds of white tongues." In an auditorium in Macon, Georgia, Jimmie Lunceford and his band were temporarily, joyously ignored as "dusky maids in evening gowns and gay young bucks in the latest fads ... danced spontaneous jigs without the music they had paid to hear." Whites watched it all from the balcony. who stood to collect $16 in his pool, also jumped up, kicking over a cabinet with his precious-and, he learned, fragile-Bessie Smith records. "Everybody danced and sang," Woody Guthrie wrote from Santa Fe. "I watched the people laugh, walk, sing, do all sorts of dances. I heard 'Hooray for Joe Louis!' 'To hell with Max Schmeling' in Indian, Mexican, Spanish, all kinds of white tongues." In an auditorium in Macon, Georgia, Jimmie Lunceford and his band were temporarily, joyously ignored as "dusky maids in evening gowns and gay young bucks in the latest fads ... danced spontaneous jigs without the music they had paid to hear." Whites watched it all from the balcony.

Eighty miles away, the black field hands who had listened on Earl Carter's radio quietly thanked him for the privilege. "Then," Jimmy Carter was to write, "our visitors walked silently out of the yard, crossed the road and the railroad tracks, entered the tenant house, and closed the door. Then all hell broke loose, and their celebration lasted all night." "It was hard to explain to the wife why I was taking a prizefight so seriously," the American Communist writer Mike Gold later wrote.

But it was Joe Louis versus Adolf Hitler Day, and I just couldn't think of another thing. And when I jumped up as the knockout came over the radio, and hopped around the room and howled like a curly wolf, I guess she just about gave up on the male sex. She was rooting for Joe, but not this wild way. "After all, it's only a prizefight, and prizefights don't decide anything real." "Baby, dear, it's more than a prizefight; it's another nail in the coffin of fascism, and almost everybody, including the Nazis, feels it deep in their bones."

Balogh fought his way into the center of the ring and announced the time: two minutes and four seconds. It was the second-fastest heavyweight championship fight ever, thirty-six seconds longer than when Tommy Burns beat Jem Roche in 1908, and four-fifths of a second faster than the 1938 Kentucky Derby six weeks earlier. Blackburn "did a fandango" as he slapped Louis on the back. But Louis showed not even a semblance of a smile as Balogh raised his hand. His lips parted only when he removed his mouth protector.

Legend later had it that when Schmeling went down, so, too, did the German broadcast. In fact, the Nazis weren't quite so quick. Throughout German-speaking Europe, Hellmis's dirgelike commentary continued. Now that the action had stopped, he became calmer and a bit more coherent. He had, the Jewish listener in Warsaw observed, regained consciousness more quickly than his hero, and, realizing that at some point he'd have to return home, had begun to rehabilitate himself.

He is on his knees... on the floor. Joe Louis has battered him down in the first round.... No, he has not suffered a heavy defeat, he has taken the blows, the towel just in time.... Joe Louis has succeeded in his revenge. Schmeling is beaten. Shortly before his goal he broke down. What a meanness of fate. This man who tries so hard, fails within sight of his goal. Joe Louis was terribly strong, he attacked, he threw himself at Schmeling, shattered him into pieces. One moment Max could not get away in time from the ropes and then it was too late, it happened, it was too late....Max, our hearts are all with you, you have prepared yourself as conscientiously as anyone. ... It was not meant to be, Max. But you were defeated as an honest fighter... you have shown the world what can be done with a strong will and heart and courage.

Hellmis's soliloquy became a Festschrift, with the ambient noise of Louis's exultant fans as its soundtrack; little did these people, the Rassengenossen Rassengenossen and and Lehmgesichter Lehmgesichter and and Mischlinge Mischlinge and "wire pullers" and "parasites" and "children of Israel" so often vilified in German print and over German airwaves, know that while they saluted their hero that night, they were also-at least in the few remaining seconds before Goebbels's minions finally did pull the plug-taunting Nazi Germany. and "wire pullers" and "parasites" and "children of Israel" so often vilified in German print and over German airwaves, know that while they saluted their hero that night, they were also-at least in the few remaining seconds before Goebbels's minions finally did pull the plug-taunting Nazi Germany.

Black writers would grope to describe Louis's astonishing power. "Fighting Fury ... Forked Lightning ... Blinding Speed ... DESTRUCTION ... JOE LOUIS! They're all the same!" one wrote. "Horror, dynamite, mayhem, destruction, devastation, atonement are some of the choice words chronicled by Mr. Webster that found their true definition in the murderous mittens of the thundering Tan Terror last night," said another. But the Louis with whom McCarthy caught up in the ring, only moments after the knockout, warranted other words: gentle, shy, awkward, laconic, inarticulate, boyish, sweet. "You said it would take you two rounds," McCarthy said breathlessly to him. "You know how long it took you?" "No, I don't, exactly," Louis replied politely. "I imagine about a minute and a half," McCarthy told him. "Well, that's fine." "Joe, which punch, if any, do you think, was the one that started him downhill?" "I think the right hand to the ribs," said Louis. "I saw it going in there, Joe, and she looked terrible," McCarthy replied, before throwing it back to Thorgersen. "I think Clem will agree that this is a scrap to be long remembered," he said. Others had that same sense. "In every land and in myriad tongues they'll tell you for years to come of the blows which laid Schmeling low," wrote Bill Nunn of the Courier, Courier, which put out one of the several extras published by the black press that night. What turned out to be the most famous description of the fight was written by Bob Considine in the which put out one of the several extras published by the black press that night. What turned out to be the most famous description of the fight was written by Bob Considine in the Mirror. Mirror.

Listen to this, buddy, for it comes from a guy whose palms are still wet, whose throat is still dry, and whose jaw is still agape from the utter shock of watching Joe Louis knock out Max Schmeling. Louis was like this: He was like a big lean copper spring, tightened and re-tightened through weeks of training until he was one package of coiled venom. Schmeling hit that spring. He hit it with a whistling right hand punch in the first minute of the fight-and the spring, tormented with tension, suddenly burst forth with one brazen spang of activity. Hard brown arms, propelling two unerring fists, blurred beneath the hot white candelabra of the bright lights. And Schmeling was in the path of them, a man caught and mangled in the whirling claws of a mad and feverish machine.

Fred Digby of the New Orleans Item New Orleans Item put it more succinctly. "Mox kept a bold front until the gong sounded," he wrote. "Then he saw zomedings. It was stars." But the prize for the shortest story went to the book editor of the put it more succinctly. "Mox kept a bold front until the gong sounded," he wrote. "Then he saw zomedings. It was stars." But the prize for the shortest story went to the book editor of the Charlotte News, Charlotte News, whose piece, headlined whose piece, headlined BLOW-BY-BLOW STORY OF FIGHT BLOW-BY-BLOW STORY OF FIGHT, consisted of one word: "Bang!" As the writers wrote, the photo agencies rushed out their stock. "I told you I sent out the last picture!" one harried editor shouted over the phone. "The one with Schmeling on his ass, that's the last one!" It was the most technical of technical knockouts, declared only because Machon had rushed into the ring; no fighter had ever been more knocked out. "Donovan could have counted off a century and Max could not have regained his feet," the Times Times declared. Though counts varied, one tally had Louis landing forty-one blows, thirty-one of them "serious," fourteen of them to the chin. Schmeling landed but two, and they were cream puffs. "I was in a hurry to get that guy outta there," Louis was to say many years later. "Artie, that was the softest dough you ever made," someone later told Donovan. "You're wrong there, pal," he replied. "A referee lives a lifetime in two minutes like that." declared. Though counts varied, one tally had Louis landing forty-one blows, thirty-one of them "serious," fourteen of them to the chin. Schmeling landed but two, and they were cream puffs. "I was in a hurry to get that guy outta there," Louis was to say many years later. "Artie, that was the softest dough you ever made," someone later told Donovan. "You're wrong there, pal," he replied. "A referee lives a lifetime in two minutes like that."

Schmeling made his way across the ring and threw his arm around Louis's shoulders. It was virtually the only glove he'd laid on him all night. "Joe, you are a real champion," he said. "You are a goot fighter." Then he went back to his corner, stood for a moment-and began to cry. "He wept softly at first," the Daily News Daily News reported. "Then his whole body shook, and the man, who for six years has chased his dream of winning back the world's heavyweight title, buried his face in his soggy gloves and cried his heart's disappointment like a chastened schoolboy." Six rows back, Hellmis had calmed down. "Max Schmeling is sitting in his corner, quite recovered," he announced. "'Why,' he probably is saying, 'was the towel thrown?' It was better, Max, much better.... You were beaten the moment you had the bad luck to catch that one blow, and now it is too late." It was, Hellmis pronounced, the end of a glorious career, one to which only the greats could be compared. And had Schmeling not been denied his title match a year earlier, he'd have regained the crown. Now, it looked like retirement. "But our hearts, Max, are with you," Hellmis continued. And when he got home, he predicted, all that talk that Germany would despise him, would even throw him into prison, would be exposed as the foolishness it always was. reported. "Then his whole body shook, and the man, who for six years has chased his dream of winning back the world's heavyweight title, buried his face in his soggy gloves and cried his heart's disappointment like a chastened schoolboy." Six rows back, Hellmis had calmed down. "Max Schmeling is sitting in his corner, quite recovered," he announced. "'Why,' he probably is saying, 'was the towel thrown?' It was better, Max, much better.... You were beaten the moment you had the bad luck to catch that one blow, and now it is too late." It was, Hellmis pronounced, the end of a glorious career, one to which only the greats could be compared. And had Schmeling not been denied his title match a year earlier, he'd have regained the crown. Now, it looked like retirement. "But our hearts, Max, are with you," Hellmis continued. And when he got home, he predicted, all that talk that Germany would despise him, would even throw him into prison, would be exposed as the foolishness it always was.

Microphone in hand, McCarthy tried nabbing Schmeling before he left the packed ring. "Max! Max, come over here!" he shouted. "Bring him over! Max! Max! Max Schmeling! Bring him over, officer! Get Max Schmeling! Officer! Get Max Schmeling over here, get him! Bring him over! Max!" Max!" McCarthy was about to surrender. "They McCarthy was about to surrender. "They [sic] [sic] don't look like I can get him, they're crowding him through the ropes on the far side, he's never even seen us. Max! I'm trying to get him. Officer! Get Max Schmeling, will ya? And I can't get him. He's going out of the ring." don't look like I can get him, they're crowding him through the ropes on the far side, he's never even seen us. Max! I'm trying to get him. Officer! Get Max Schmeling, will ya? And I can't get him. He's going out of the ring."

For the gravel-voiced announcer, it was only the latest of his many misses that night. He had missed at least one knockdown. He had missed the kidney punch. He had missed Machon's flying towel. Twice, he'd said mistakenly that the title had just changed hands. The press would pick him apart for his performance. "Reduced to dithering bewilderment," said Time. Time. Should stick to the horse racing and stay away from prize fights, urged the Should stick to the horse racing and stay away from prize fights, urged the Bronx Home News. Bronx Home News. "Some of the noble 72,000 appear to have by now a fair notion of what they saw," a young sportswriter named Red Smith wrote in the "Some of the noble 72,000 appear to have by now a fair notion of what they saw," a young sportswriter named Red Smith wrote in the Philadelphia Record. Philadelphia Record. "In this respect they have a marked advantage over the 72,000,000 who still have no clear idea of what they heard." Even the sponsor called him "a little addled." In fact, McCarthy had produced one of the immortal moments in the history of radio. He hadn't caught every punch, but he had captured the incomparable drama of the moment for an entire generation of Americans, and for posterity, too. With such an audience, one prescient observer speculated, "Mike Jacobs must be spending wakeful nights wondering what kind of a tie-up he can make with the television companies when that invention is as commonplace as the radio today." "In this respect they have a marked advantage over the 72,000,000 who still have no clear idea of what they heard." Even the sponsor called him "a little addled." In fact, McCarthy had produced one of the immortal moments in the history of radio. He hadn't caught every punch, but he had captured the incomparable drama of the moment for an entire generation of Americans, and for posterity, too. With such an audience, one prescient observer speculated, "Mike Jacobs must be spending wakeful nights wondering what kind of a tie-up he can make with the television companies when that invention is as commonplace as the radio today."

The fans made their way to the exits. One encountered a new arrival in a tuxedo, white scarf, and top hat, running wildly into the outgoing traffic. "What round is it?" he asked. "What round is it?" Many black fans lingered; on a night like this, they weren't quite ready to leave. Others were too stunned to move, including some of the Germans. The knot of them who had earlier cheered Schmeling's single, puny punch now sat disconsolate. "Unser Max!" "Unser Max!" someone sitting nearby heard one of them say. someone sitting nearby heard one of them say. "Die Juden haben ihn vergiftet": "Die Juden haben ihn vergiftet": The Jews poisoned him. A German reporter cried over his typewriter. The Jews poisoned him. A German reporter cried over his typewriter.

For all the money they had spent, some fans were unhappy not to have seen more action, or at least not to have seen Schmeling suffer longer. Then there were all those who had missed the climax altogether. There was the fellow who, thinking he could beat the clock, had gone to buy a sandwich. There was Count Basie, who had bent over to pick up his straw hat. There was Roy Wilkins, who had finally reached his seat as the opening bell rang, and who was still draping his coat over it when the end came. (He still considered the fight "the shortest, sweetest minute of the entire Thirties.") There was the man from Variety Variety who turned around to greet Damon Runyon and turned back to learn the fight was over. There was the who turned around to greet Damon Runyon and turned back to learn the fight was over. There was the Courier's Courier's business manager, who, concerned about soiling his white Palm Beach suit, had been cleaning off his seat. And the man in the mezzanine still fiddling with his opera glasses. And the woman whose purse opened, spilling all of its contents onto the ground. And the fans in adjacent seats arguing over which one of them would sit behind the pillar. And all of those behind all of those who stood up with the opening bell and never sat back down. And those whose seats, thanks to Mike Jacobs's sleight of hand, had not been as advertised. "We might just as well have been in Anny Ondra's chamber in Berlin," complained an irate owner of some "ringside" seats. business manager, who, concerned about soiling his white Palm Beach suit, had been cleaning off his seat. And the man in the mezzanine still fiddling with his opera glasses. And the woman whose purse opened, spilling all of its contents onto the ground. And the fans in adjacent seats arguing over which one of them would sit behind the pillar. And all of those behind all of those who stood up with the opening bell and never sat back down. And those whose seats, thanks to Mike Jacobs's sleight of hand, had not been as advertised. "We might just as well have been in Anny Ondra's chamber in Berlin," complained an irate owner of some "ringside" seats.

Similarly, countless radio listeners tuned in too late or chose the wrong moment to fetch a beer. One man listened aboard a Greyhound bus just as it entered the Holland Tunnel in New Jersey; it was all over when the bus emerged into New York. The tubes in Dizzy Dean's radio took too long to warm up. At a softball game in Coffeyville, Kansas, someone accidentally kicked the radio cord running under the stands out of its socket. The newest graduates of City College were unable to flee commencement ceremonies as quickly as La Guardia had. Because of crossed lines, Spanish speakers in South America heard the Portuguese play-byplay and Portuguese speakers heard the Spanish; things ended too quickly to fix the problem.

But few of those at Yankee Stadium that night felt shortchanged. Purely as a matter of boxing, they had witnessed, or at least been part of, something extraordinary-an exhibition, Grantland Rice conceded, even greater than Dempsey in Toledo. Jim Corbett once said that in the life of every champion there came a night when he had everything; for two minutes and four seconds, Joe Louis might well have been the greatest boxer who ever lived. And to those at the stadium who had missed it, or had seen little more from their cheap seats than two specks in a phosphorescent square, there was still the lifelong privilege of saying that they'd been there. The Defender Defender told of a man who, over three years of self-denial, set aside $350 to see the fight in style, buying himself new clothes and a ringside seat, flying to New York, staying in a first-class hotel, finding himself a woman. Though the trip had cost him his job, he had no regrets. "I'm willing to eat crusts of bread until I find another job, because I have pleasant memories to feast upon," he told the paper. "I have lived a dream I've dreamed since I became a man. That's more than most people ever do." told of a man who, over three years of self-denial, set aside $350 to see the fight in style, buying himself new clothes and a ringside seat, flying to New York, staying in a first-class hotel, finding himself a woman. Though the trip had cost him his job, he had no regrets. "I'm willing to eat crusts of bread until I find another job, because I have pleasant memories to feast upon," he told the paper. "I have lived a dream I've dreamed since I became a man. That's more than most people ever do."

Afterward, Louis remembered how everyone had patted his back as he made his way to the dressing room. When he arrived, forty reporters crammed in with him, while forty more struggled with the police outside to join them, in a fight that was longer and more evenly matched than the one in the ring. The room was stifling and sepulchral, brightened only by flashbulbs. Louis sat on a dressing table in his bare feet, covered by towels. Policemen made it nearly impossible to get close to him; many were collecting his autograph. "Lift up that hand that did it!" a photographer shouted at him. "Ah sho 'nuff a real champion now," Louis was quoted as saying.

"Yeah, yo' sho' are," replied Blackburn, wiping the damp off his brow.

Someone said that Schmeling had already asked for a rubber match.

"What for?" Julian Black shot back. "Didn't he just have his chance and lose? We'll take anybody else. Anybody."

"You must have felt different tonight, Joe, from the other night," one reporter said. "What was it?"

"Ah just felt stronger," Louis said. "Ah was off that other night. Did me lotta good, though." He was calm, matter-of-fact. That must have been someone else altogether in the ring. "He never hurt me," he went on. "That right he threw just barely grazed me. I saw it coming and I rode with it. I've been telling all the folks at my camp for the last few days that I'd do it in one round. They thought I was kidding, but I meant it. I've felt all along that he was meat for me." It was, Louis said, one of his easiest fights. As he said it, he yawned.

So they don't come back, eh, Joe? "I got what folks call revenge-and how." Did he know how many punches he threw? "Ah don't know how many. Ah was throwin' 'em in there a mile a minute. I bet Smellin' couldn't count them, either." When did he know he would knock Schmeling out? The moment he signed the contract. Was it the easiest fight of his career? "Levinsky was pretty easy. This is right with it, though." Had he felt any animosity toward Schmeling? "I was sore at some of the things Schmeling's been saying." But what if they'd been planted? "Well, he didn't deny them, and that's just as bad to me." Would he visit Germany on that European trip he'd been planning? "Now man, you know 'ah ain't got no business in Germany." He said it with a faint smile. Bill Robinson came in and planted a kiss on Louis's forehead. "Why, you old son of a gun!" shouted the mayor of Detroit. "How did you do it?" "I guess I just done it, Mayor," Louis replied. The governor of Michigan, Frank Murphy, told Louis he'd never know how much he'd made his heart thump. "I'm glad I made it short for you, sir," replied Louis, looking, as the Times Times put it, "exactly like a wool-gathering youngster standing in awe of royalty, instead of a young man who had just earned about $400,000 in 124 seconds." A beaming La Guardia, somewhere underneath a ten-gallon hat, grabbed Louis's hand. "Nice work, Joe!" he said. Braddock came in, too. "This is our anniversary tonight," he explained. And it was true: exactly a year had passed since Louis had taken his crown, in what had turned out to be, when it came right down to it, a preliminary event. put it, "exactly like a wool-gathering youngster standing in awe of royalty, instead of a young man who had just earned about $400,000 in 124 seconds." A beaming La Guardia, somewhere underneath a ten-gallon hat, grabbed Louis's hand. "Nice work, Joe!" he said. Braddock came in, too. "This is our anniversary tonight," he explained. And it was true: exactly a year had passed since Louis had taken his crown, in what had turned out to be, when it came right down to it, a preliminary event.

The other big winner of the night came by, too. "Nice work, Bomber," said Mike Jacobs. Louis just smiled.

It was left for Julian Black to say, "How's that for our old boy?"

"I knew he would do it," Jacobs replied. But he'd given Louis an assist, given him time to get over the other fight and, as for Schmeling, "giving Father Time time to whet his scythe." Jacobs said he would have another fight for Louis in September, and Louis said that was fine with him; all he wanted was a month's vacation, and then he'd be ready to go back to work. Two years earlier, Black had gone to Schmeling's dressing room to congratulate him. But now no one from Schmeling's camp reciprocated. "Sportsmanship, I suppose," one of Louis's handlers muttered. Half a dozen fans stood by the door of Louis's lair and raised their right arms. "Heil Louis!" "Heil Louis!" they shouted in unison. Mounted policemen were needed to control the crowds awaiting Louis outside. they shouted in unison. Mounted policemen were needed to control the crowds awaiting Louis outside.

Moments earlier, as he exited the ring, Max Schmeling had managed a wan smile for a photographer. Damon Runyon watched him take his leave, probably for the last time, at least from an American ring. If old age hadn't already killed whatever hope he harbored of yet another comeback, war soon would. "He is a pugilistic old man from the first belt on the chops," Runyon wrote, "and there is only one fate for old men in the ring, when a youngster is on their trail." Joe Williams of the World-Telegram World-Telegram was also watching Schmeling. "To put it bluntly, he was a complete flop," he wrote. "No other reputable challenger ever went out so ingloriously, ever looked so pathetically outclassed." was also watching Schmeling. "To put it bluntly, he was a complete flop," he wrote. "No other reputable challenger ever went out so ingloriously, ever looked so pathetically outclassed."

Williams's thoughts then turned to Louis. "They said he'd never forget the first beating he took from Schmeling," he observed. "In view of what happened last night, it might be added that Schmeling will never forget the beating he took from Louis. All right, Adolf, take him away."

* Two people sitting directly behind Hellmis later claimed he'd lifted his microphone to pick up the catcalls for Baer, and then said, "Listen to this booing. You will see from this that the Jews are no more popular here than they are in Germany." The two eavesdroppers relayed what they said they'd heard to Herbert Bayard Swope, the editor and author, who passed it along to NBC chief David Sarnoff, who asked that an English transcript of the broadcast be prepared. It contained no such statement. Two people sitting directly behind Hellmis later claimed he'd lifted his microphone to pick up the catcalls for Baer, and then said, "Listen to this booing. You will see from this that the Jews are no more popular here than they are in Germany." The two eavesdroppers relayed what they said they'd heard to Herbert Bayard Swope, the editor and author, who passed it along to NBC chief David Sarnoff, who asked that an English transcript of the broadcast be prepared. It contained no such statement.