Читать книгу Jacobs Beach. The Mob, the Garden and the Golden Age of Boxing онлайн

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Schmeling had the best view of some of the punches, but not the ones that mattered—particularly the one to the kidneys he later complained was a foul, the one that Joe sank into his pale, untended trunk just below the ribcage in the first round and from which Max could not recover. In reality, it was a bolt-like right to his chin in the early seconds that did the damage; thereafter, the blows struck all parts. There was nothing illegal—in New York, at least—about the kidney killer that took away Schmeling's resolve, though.

Max went down. Art Donovan, again the referee, applied the count. Max got up. The terrible but beautiful assault continued. Joe was cold, balanced, and merciless. He just picked targets and let his gloves go. The hesitancy he'd shown against Farr had gone. A winded and bewildered Schmeling could not get out of the way, even when he turned sideways along the ropes like a boy being bullied. For Americans watching and listening, for others with an interest beyond the boxing ring also, this was retribution of the sweetest kind. The bad guy was getting his licks, good and proper. Dazed to the point of incomprehension, Max wandered like a lost sheep back into the storm and his legs had not a drop of strength in them to keep him upright as Joe slayed him like a righteous knight. The German swayed, tottered, and sailed south as Joe's fists rattled jawbone, brain, and spirit simultaneously. Max, clinging to the edge of the battleground, was up at five, but in his own hell. The white towel floated in. Donovan ignored it, in accordance with local statute, and then applied his own mercy.