It was a September evening that already smelled of autumn, September 24, 1935, in New York. Yankee Stadium was packed with passionate, roaring souls—over 80,000 bodies crammed together to witness the clash that would mark the sunset of one era and the radiant dawn of the next. In one corner stood Max Baer, the former heavyweight champion. A Hollywood postcard Adonis, with a million-dollar smile and at the same time a sinister aura of ferocity. In the other, Joe Louis Barrow, “The Brown Bomber.” Twenty-one years old, stone-faced, with a gaze that betrayed no emotion and an aura of destiny, unshakable.
To understand the magnitude of that fight, one must first understand the characters. And above all, one must venture into the razor-thin boundary between reality and legend.
Max Baer: The Boxer, the Mask, and the Alleged Truths
Max Baer was a character built by the press and his own charisma. After ripping the title from Primo Carnera in a brutal battle, his reputation as a puncher blossomed. It was said that his fists were so hard they had to be insured for a million dollars. It was whispered that he had killed two men in the ring, Frankie Campbell and Ernie Schaaf. The narrative was perfect: a giant with an affable manner, brimming with confidence and at the same time cruelty, with literally deadly power in his hands.
But was the truth really the one told by that era’s narrative? Was Baer truly that caricature painted by Ron Howard in his otherwise captivating film Cinderella Man? Or did the former world champion conceal something far different within himself than the contrived, stereotypical villain of a movie script? Max Baer was often described as a madcap clown by those who knew him well. An eccentric prankster, a bizarre clown who preferred performing to fighting. He didn’t much love boxing, but the extraordinary strength he possessed gave him a quick route to fame and fortune.
Some claim that the deaths of Campbell and Schaaf scarred him deeply; that the tragic end of Campbell in particular left wounds he never truly healed. A theory well summarized by the words of his son, Max Baer Jr.: “My father cried over what happened to Frankie Campbell. He had nightmares. He helped Frankie’s kids through college.”
Not everyone, however, shares this version of events. American writer Catherine Johnson, just last year, published a book entitled Then The Word Moved On, presenting rather unsettling results from her in-depth research into Frankie Campbell’s death and what followed. The book opens with a foreword by Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini (who himself caused the death of an opponent, South Korean Deuk Koo Kim, with his punches) and concludes that the stories of Baer’s anguish, his support for Frankie’s family, and his supposed gentle nature are in fact the product of a massive historical manipulation orchestrated by Max’s friends and relatives.
Whether the narrative of Baer’s violent and sadistic nature was real or not, it certainly helped sell an enormous number of tickets. That night, Max wore his most flamboyant mask. On the day of the fight with Louis, he climbed into the ring joking, kissing girls in the crowd, as if he were more interested in the show than the fight. He had lost his titles just a few months earlier to Jim Braddock, a boxer who that night had proven far more motivated than Baer himself. Now he was back in the ring seeking another title shot. But no one really knew what was going through his head.
Joe Louis: The Rise of the Machine
On the other side stood Joe Louis. For Black America, oppressed by the Great Depression and the Jim Crow laws (“separate but equal”), Louis was more than a boxer. He was a symbol of dignity, discipline, and redemption. His manager, Julian Black, and his trainer, Jack Blackburn, had forged him not only technically, but also publicly.
He was to be the antithesis of the previous Black champion, Jack Johnson: humble, quiet, and “untouchable” by the white press.
And that’s exactly how Joe turned out to be: reserved, withdrawn, soft-spoken, he didn’t like the spotlight and seemed to shy away from fame for its own sake. Baer and Louis looked like polar opposites, day and night.
Louis fought 22 bouts before facing Baer, winning them all, 18 by KO. His rise was that of a steamroller. Technical precision, incredible physicality, and dedication to training: Joe was born to box, anyone could see it. Jab, cross, hook, two-handed combinations, all thrown with rare naturalness.
White America looked at this phenomenon with a mix of fear and curiosity.
Baer was supposed to be the ultimate test, the wall that the steamroller would either crash against—or break through on his way to the title.
The Fight
The gong sounded, and from the very start it was clear what was happening.
Baer, for the only time in his career, looked almost intimidated. Louis, on the other hand, was pure focus: his jab, long and sharp as a razor, landed on Baer at will. And already in the first round, a brilliant sequence—right hand, slip, counter right uppercut, followed by a left and another right—shook Max.
Baer looked slow, almost clumsy, but he regrouped and caught Louis with a long combination that began with a heavy right cross to the face. The blow only triggered Louis’s response: several rights that badly rattled Baer. At the end of the first round, Max already looked on the verge of collapse.
In the second, a jab seemed to break Baer’s nose. Louis kept hammering his rival with his splendid left, and only at the end of the round did Max show a flicker of pride.
In the third, Louis put Baer on the canvas for the first time in his career. After a crushing right to the face, Joe swarmed him with a barrage of two-handed shots, finishing with a right hook. Baer got up, only to see Louis charge again and unleash three consecutive left hooks that dropped him to his knees once more. The bell saved him from the count.
In the fourth, Baer tried everything to contain a rampant Louis, but it was hopeless. Louis waited for the right moment and unleashed a beautiful overhand that crashed into Baer’s face, dropping him to his knees more mentally than physically. Down on one knee, he shook his head, and the referee waved it off. He stood up immediately, saluted Louis, and staggered back to his corner. His trademark smile was gone, replaced by a lost and pained expression.
Louis’s performance was simply flawless: his punches were too fast, too precise, too powerful for a Baer who seemed just a shadow of himself. But over time, numerous reports emerged about Max’s physical condition, revealing the serious state of his hands. His right hand was fractured, with four broken knuckles, and his left wrist injured by a bone chip. Dr. Max Stern had administered multiple Novocain shots in his right, but a 45-minute rain delay weakened the effect. Manager Ancil Hoffman had begged him to postpone the fight, but Baer feared the bout would be canceled, pushing him further away from another title shot.
After that night, Joe Louis’s career skyrocketed, while Baer’s drifted into obscurity, marked by fights against lesser opponents.
Ninety years later, the memory of those two boxers lives on in the archival footage of the match—a symbolic passing of the torch between champions.