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Graduation and Beyond

Tree and Michael met for lunch at the Beanery, a bustling diner on the near south side. The restaurant was a converted garage not far from a major hospital and a lot of industry, so business was steady. “I can’t believe we’re out of school.” Tree said. “Now, I guess we’ll have to go to work for a living.”

“I didn’t want to tell you this until it actually happened,” Michael said, ”but I’ve been admitted to the University of Illinois Medical School. It’s a six year program. After two years, I’ll get a bachelor’s degree, and four years later I’ll get my MD. I’m really excited about it.”

“I’m your best friend for Chrissakes, as close as a brother, and I never knew you wanted to be a doc. I’m really surprised.”

“Yeah, I kept it quiet. I figured I had no chance of getting in, but somehow I did. My folks are happy about it too, not only because they like the idea of my being a doctor, but it’s a government supported program and won’t cost too much. I’ll be able to concentrate on school and not have to worry too much about cash flow.”

“I didn’t know you were that smart,” Tree said, with a wink. “Didn’t you have to take some exams to get in?”

“Sure did,” Michael said, “and I had to sit through some interviews, too. You walk into a room with six chairs. Five of ‘em are filled with serious looking guys who are already docs, and you know the sixth one is for you. I guess I handled myself well enough though, because yesterday I found out I was accepted. My folks always wanted me to be a professional of some type, so now everyone is happy. Fact is, if my grandfather hadn’t been so successful in his business, I’ve always felt that Dad would have been a doctor or a lawyer, too. I’m fulfilling his dream, and to me, nothing could be better.”

“Yeah, you got that right, Tree said. “Thanks for telling me, and you know how happy I am for you. Actually, I’m pretty well set up, too. Bernie Cummings, my manager, has lined up a series of bouts for me. The purses should be decent, and I can work part time at the mill if I need to. I was considering night school, too, and now that you’re going to med school, it makes me think I really ought to give college a try.”

“Right on the mark,” Michael said. “Fact is, I hate to admit it, but you were always smarter than me, and you should take advantage of it. You’ll need something to do after hanging up your gloves.”

To Tree, it was like he was watching a friend’s future unfold before his eyes. What he envisioned looked good, and he was truly happy for Michael. He might have been envious, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was pleased with his own plan. He had a manager who was kick starting his career and a girlfriend he was crazy about.

“When’s your next fight?” Michael asked.

“Bernie got me a fight in Terre Haute,” Tree said. “It’s not a very high level bout, but officially, it’s my professional debut. Truth is, I’ve already been fighting at a higher level, but they were unsanctioned fights in private clubs and secret venues run by local promoters. No financial records were kept, and I was paid under the table.The IRS didn’t know anything about it.”

“So are you officially sanctioned by the boxing commission now?” Michael asked.

“You bet. I had to give ‘em a medical report, my fingerprints, my school and work history, a 50 dollar fee, and contact info for my closest relative in case I get hurt. Now that I think about it, it was probably as detailed as applying to medical school.”

Michael started school and rented an apartment that he shared with some fellow students. School was demanding; still, he managed to have some fun on the weekends. His apartment morphed into a “party pad” on Friday nights, and a diverse group of young people participated in all sorts of communal pleasures. Michael never lost his focus, though. He was a solid student and aced his science classes, literature, and history.

Tree came to a few of the parties, but, for the most part, he was happy doing his boxing thing and spending time with Angie. She was going to school in the city, preparing to be a dental assistant and living with her parents. Tree lived at home but stayed over at Angie’s at least half the time.

Angie’s parents loved him as much as she did and didn’t mind it when the kids shared a bedroom. Tree and Angie were inseparable, attached at the hip, some said, and essentially married. In fact, it got to the point where seeing one without the other was rare, unless he was in the ring. And, he was in the ring often. Bernie kept the opponents coming, and Tree kept winning. As he moved up in class, boxing enthusiasts began taking notice of the young fighter from Chicago.

Tree went to night school at the same time as he was boxing. His purses had enabled him to put away some cash but not enough to execute his plans. “Pops,” he said, “Can you lend me some dough?”

“Whatever you need,” his father said. “If you can’t make the payments, you don’t ever have to pay me back. You’re the best gift I ever got, and if you ever need anything else, just ask. By the way, mind tellin’ me why you need the dough?”

“Don’t mind at all, “ Tree said. “Me and Angie are gettin’ hitched.”

Tree called Michael and asked him to show up at City Hall with his parents the following Tuesday at two in the afternoon. “Wear a suit and tie and be on time.”

“You gettin’ married?” Michael asked.

“I want to more than anything, and besides, we have to, Will you be there?”

“For sure, but why do you have to”? Michael asked.

“Why do you think, my man? We have a middleweight in the oven,” Tree said.

The officiate, Judge Mason, tipped in at about 300 pounds and looked as if he might have been a heavyweight about 100 pounds earlier. The vows took a few minutes during which time both sets of parents alternated being smiling and crying. Everyone exchanged congratulations and kisses, as they prepared for some festivities at a nice restaurant in the Italian section of town.

Angie’s mom had a polaroid, and she took a few dozen pictures for the album she planned to put together. She wanted a picture of the newlyweds with the judge who graciously obliged. As they prepared to leave his chambers, the judge said, “Good luck, champ.” Tree looked surprised.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the judge asked.

“Honestly, you do look familiar,” Tree said, “but I don’t remember where I’ve seen you.”

“My name is Stone Mason; it’s a nickname I got when I was a little kid, and it stuck. I used to train at the same gym as you when you were just getting into the game. I guess I got hit so often that the pols thought I’d make a perfect county official. The fact that I have a law degree from the University of Chicago plus some family clout probably helped a little bit, too. Anyway, my real name is Oliver, and I hung ‘em up after three professional bouts.”

“How come?” Tree asked.

“Because it hurt too damned much,” the judge replied. “Anyone who gives me trouble here, I can throw in the slammer, and they don’t fight back. I still follow the fights, though. You were real impressive in the gym, a real comer, and all of us knew you’d make it in the pros. Good for you, and lots of luck champ. I gotta go, ‘cause it seems like everyone wants to get married today.”

Angie and Tree snuck away to a resort in Michigan for a few days; then, it was back to school for her and back to the gym for him. He was getting one or two bouts a month, and some of them were more distant from home. His skills improved as did the quality of his opponents. He was still unbeaten; in fact, some fighters began ducking the chance to fight him, fearful he would put an early end to their careers. With each win, Tree’s ranking moved upward. A few more successes, and Bernie would start thinking seriously about putting him on track for a championship bout.

Angie got sick one morning as he was about to leave for a main event in Toronto. Four hours after he got to Canada, she spontaneously aborted. Tree got the message at his hotel and called her. “I’m so sorry sweetheart; are you OK?”

“Except for a broken heart, I’m fine,” she said. “We’ll start over when you get home.”

“How about I forget this match and come right home?” he asked.

“No, you stay there, and do the best you can.”

Tree stayed and suffered his first loss. Some of the fans recognized that he wasn’t at his sharpest. Others felt that perhaps he had been overrated. The most bothersome comment came from Tony, the Thug, Desandro, the fighter who had just beaten him. “He ain’t dat good” Tony said. “I’ll give him a rematch any time he wants it, if he aint’ afraid.”

The boxing commission questioned Bernie with regard to Tree’s lackluster performance, and when they heard what had happened at home, they dropped the issue. A fight for the championship would still be in the offing if Tree were to win his next few fights. The first was in Dallas, a ten rounder against Levi Thompson, a bona fide welterweight contender who had recently moved down from middleweight.

Thompson predicted an easy victory at the weigh-in. “I’m bigger, tougher, and I have more endurance that you. I just beat a middleweight in a 12 round, unanimous decision, so you don’t have a chance.”

Tree looked at him and said, “We’ll see what happens in the ring, big mouth.”

Tree knocked him cold in six rounds. A right cross to the temple and a pretty left hook to the jaw induced Mr. Thompson’s premature slumber. “What do ya have to say now, sucker?”

His next fight was his rematch with Tony Desandro. Tree was a three to one underdog, but this time, his heart wasn’t aching and Angie was at ringside.

Desandro was confident and did a lot of showboating in the early rounds. He danced around for a few rounds taunting Tree who stalked him relentlessly, saving his energy. In his corner, between rounds five and six, Tree told his trainer,” If he comes out again with his clown act, we’re going home early.”

Thirty seconds into the sixth, the Thug stuck out his jaw as a way to provoke. Tree launched a left hook, short and sweet, and so quick that most of the fans missed it. They might not have seen it, but fans in the first three rows heard the crack when Desandro’s jaw broke. He crumbled and didn’t stir for a long time. His trainers dragged him to his corner where he sat glassy eyed and dejected for a full five minutes.

Back in his dressing room, Tree was jubilant. “What do you think Desandro will have to say for himself now?” a sports writer asked.

“His jaw might be too sore for him talk for a while,” Tree said.

“And what do you have to say for yourself,” the sportswriter persisted.

“I’m tired, and I’m going home with my beautiful wife.”