“Pulling For & Against Joe Louis”

Out To Pastoral

by John Idol

HILLSBOROUGH, NC—(Weekly Hubris)—5/31/10—Up until a few years ago, few African-American families called northwestern North Carolina home. Only one family lived anywhere near my home. It was headed by a mulatto* with whom my dad sometimes went foxhunting. Light-skinned as he was, Dad still called him a “Nigger,” and so did other men in the neighborhood. But Dad and his foxhunting buddy shared a hero, Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber. Dad’s racial attitude, however, left him in a conflicted state when Joe defended his title against Billy Conn. That had not been the case during Joe’s rematch with Max Schmeling.

In the days leading up the scheduled bout in Yankee Stadium, we listened with Dad to the pre-bout hype, learning that Schmeling was a German trying to regain the heavyweight belt. We didn’t know at the time that part of our “bloodline” (ye Gods: these terms!) was German (Eitel). That knowledge would not have fazed us, however, for we wanted an American to win, black or white.

On the night of the rematch, we drew chairs up around a small table radio, Uncle Alfred joining us, and followed the fight punch by punch, cheering when Louis landed a solid blow, groaning when Schmeling found an opening and struck with a hard blow to the chin. On and on the fight went, its outcome uncertain, for two master boxers were giving their utmost to win the match.

Our radio was a cheap affair and reception wasn’t good. The voice of the announcer kept fading in and out. Dad, with his head resting on the radio, sometimes had to tell us what he’d heard. “Come on. Joe, knock him out!” we shouted when we learned he’d staggered Schmeling. But Schmeling fought on: not buckling; nor backing off; giving about as good as he got.

Could it be that the German, the heart of a champion beating in his breast, would find a weakness as he had before and KO Joe? We hated him for hanging on, yet admired him for his toughness. What would it take to stop him? An upper-cut? A solid body blow? A flurry of jabs to his ribs? He must go down. Our national pride and glory rested on Joe’s defeat of the stubborn Kraut.

Finally, the moment we’d awaited came, in the 12^th round, when the Brown Bomber KO’d Schmeling and preserved the heavyweight title for the United States. We cheered loudly as Dad turned off the radio, proud that an American had won. Off to bed we went with happy hearts beating in our chests. No matter that the winner was a black man.

But racism is hard to conceal or suppress. At least it was for Dad, who had not had the liberating experience of reading Huck Finn’s adventures with Nigger Jim. His patriotic support of Joe left him when, in 1941, the Brown Bomber defended his title against Billy Conn, the current white hope.

Once again, as in 1938, we gathered around a radio: a very different apparatus this time round; a console model; a Firestone with a big speaker and tuning eye; a tube glowing a vivid green above the tuning dial. (If any of us had read Homer, we’d have called the radio Polyphemus, for Odysseus’s one-eyed opponent.) Unlike its predecessor, this radio blasted out the announcer’s voice as he described a white man’s attempt to dethrone a black.

Throughout the days leading up to the match, Dad and others in Deep Gap listened to reports of Billy Conn’s preparations for the fight, hearing repeatedly that he stood a good chance of besting the ageing champ. “I hope Conn wins,” said Dad. “He’s just the man to KO Joe!”

Patriotism wasn’t an issue this time. No Schmeling to send back to Nazi Germany, his head bent, his pride crushed. No Kraut to beat to a pulp. But a white man fighting to uphold the pride of his race in pugilism.

A white man up against a black!

This time, we didn’t have to lean forward to hear the radio, which, with volume turned as high as it would go, shook the living room walls. We could hear the smack of glove against glove over the announcer’s voice. We couldn’t have heard better with ring-side seats.

The pace, the excitement of the bout, kept us on the edges of our chairs. When would Conn land a staggering blow? When would Louis sweep in a hook that would send Conn tumbling to the mat? On and on the fight went, Conn holding his own, building our expectations, making us more and more hopeful of a white man’s victory.

All of us were in Conn’s corner, fervently so, since he could possibly break the hold black boxers had on the heavyweight title. Pulling for Joe was now impossible, much as we’d pulled for him before.

When the KO came, in the 13^th round, there was great disappointment in Conn’s loss but not a grudging respect for Joe. He had fought hard, taken Conn’s best shots and defended his title. During their rematch, five years later, we had given up on Conn as the great white hope and once again pulled for Joe, now an aging warrior, for sure.

Had we learned, years later, when Joe Louis became overwhelmed with income tax debts and suffered poor health, that Max Schmeling became a benefactor, I wonder what turn our conversation would have taken on the themes of patriotism and racism.

I hope that all of us, in an act of grace and charity, would have agreed that a good heart knows no national or racial boundaries. That realization could well be the biggest fight Max Schmeling and Joe Louis ever won.

*A term most probably now on the wrong side of the PC-line.