TITLE: "Microchip Man - Not a Superhero" 10th (final chapter) and epilogue By Jacob Drollinger 07/01/09 |
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
SEND ARTICLE TO A FRIEND |
The Championship
Saturday night fights were something special at the Hollerman Center. Illegal betting was big business, and bookies scavenged the building looking for fresh meat. Mark’s entourage for this fight included Katie, who was curious to see what all the fuss was about. Monroe was already there – had been since 6:30. He was nervously talking to Baxter Morris’ manager, evidently telling him that his fighter was in big trouble. The face of the opponent’s manager was turned up in a grin, as if to say “Your guy is a ten to one underdog, and you’re actually talking about winning.”
They had to show Mark where the dressing room was; he was not familiar with either of the places he had fought at so far. Carter and Monroe went with Mark into the locker room, which was a lot nicer than that of Union Hall. Instead of smelling like urine, this room smelled like a mixture of spring breeze air freshener and urine.
The crowd was starting to fill in outside, and Tina went back outside to wait for Jack and Leanne to give them their tickets. She arrived at the front door just as they were walking up. Leanne gave Tina a big hug, and Jack said, “Hello there, Tina.”
“Well guys, here’re your tickets, my mom and Alexia are already inside sitting down, and your seats are right next to theirs’ at ringside. I’ve gotta get to the dressing room to pray with Mark.”
“Mark told us the tickets he got us weren’t expensive,” Leanne hollered at Tina who was already walking away. “These are ringside seats?”
“Yeah,” Tina yelled back, “but they were still only twenty bucks each.”
When she entered the locker room she was taken by surprise to find Monroe, Carter and Mark in the middle of prayer. She quickly crossed the room and joined in as Carter was closing with “In Jesus name.” She kept the prayer going, “And Lord, I just ask you right now to keep my husband safe as he fights tonight. May tonight just be the continuation of something great. In Jesus name I pray, Amen.”
“Monroe, I didn’t know that you were a Christian.” Tina stared at the man in amazement.
“I wasn’t, until I met your husband here. I can’t imagine nothing like this happening without some kind of heavenly intervention.”
“What time is it?” Mark asked anybody.
“It is...Monroe hesitated, “seven fifty-two.”
The previous fight was one of those boring, slow-paced heavyweight bouts that went the distance. It had been over for twenty minutes. Unlike Mark’s fight against Ben Wright, almost all of the audience remained for the big event. Some people were actually still shuffling their way in when Mark entered the arena. There was a barely perceptible round of boos as the three men sauntered down the walkway. Mark wondered if he was going to get beer cups and nacho trays thrown at him.
Baxter Morris came down the tunnel slowly. There were mostly cheers from the crowd, but a smattering of boos for him as well. Morris entered the ring with a big smile on his face, in anticipation of getting to knock the crap out of the white man standing across from him. Morris removed his robe to reveal an extremely cut body with a miniscule amount of body fat. Then Mark took off his robe and showed the new muscle he had gained, but next to Morris’ chiseled physique, it wasn’t all that impressive.
There was an announcer for this match, and as he introduced the fighters, it became obvious that he was somewhat of a Baxter Morris fan. “And in this corner, wearing red and white, the top ranked middleweight contender in the state, Baxter ‘the monster’ Morris,” he spoke directly into the microphone. He had introduced Mark as “the challenger, Mark Religand.” He failed to even mention the colors he was wearing.
The fighters were called to the center of the ring to receive the instructions. Morris was remarkably calm to be fighting a man that he knew next to nothing about. All he could see was that he was white, and that he didn’t look very strong.
The bell rang and both men danced circles around each other. This time, Mark made
the first move. He stopped circling the ring and danced on his toes near his corner. Morris was
forced to come to Mark and tried two relatively quick jabs. It was like Mark could see the glove
leaving his opponent’s shoulder. Mark ducked back and the two jabs missed. Then it was his turn.
He threw four lightening fast jabs, each one landing squarely in the middle of Morris’ face. It looked very odd because it appeared that there hadn’t been any punches thrown, just Morris’ head being snapped back four times. Mark decided not to move in for the kill just yet, so he took off dancing again. Morris’ nose began to bleed. He was hurt and angry now, and he charged at Mark,
forgetting all about his footwork. Mark sidestepped the widely flailing Morris, and hit him with a booming uppercut to the right side of his rib cage on the way by. There was a loud cracking noise,declaring that he had just had his ribs broken, and Morris immediately fell onto his knees. “You ‘expletive’, Morris’ manager screamed at Mark. Everybody in the crowd, including Mark’s family, were breathless. Morris simply sat in the middle of the ring gasping for air but not getting any. The referee was counting but nobody was listening. The crowd was in silent shock as the fighter fell over onto the mat. He was breathing now but coughing up blood. A team of medical specialists bounded into the ring to attend to the man who was supposed to be the second best middleweight fighter in the state.
Mark was clearly distressed – upset at the result of the first uppercut he had ever hit anybody with. Thinking for a few seconds though, he remembered hitting a kid while playing football with Rick against two neighborhood boys at his grandma’s house. He was probably nine or ten-years-old. One of the boys was an enormous young man, and he had thrown a block at Mark by just tackling him, landing on top of him and knocking all of the air out of him. After catching his breath, Mark got to his feet, and ripped a crushing blow to the boy’s stomach. The effect of that punch was essentially the same as this one; the boy fell to his knees. But in that case, the punch had come from an angry but normal ten-year-old Mark. This was unfair, Mark thought, as his hand was grabbed by the ref to declare him the winner. After snatching his hand away, Mark immediately ran over to the huddle of medical personnel surrounding the injured fighter. “I’m sorry, Baxter,” Mark cried.
“Sorry nothing, man. You almost killed him,” Morris manager responded to Mark’s apology.
By this time, it was clear that Morris was going to live, as he was sitting up having his ribs examined by a cute young EMT. He could barely talk, but managed, “No, don’t cuss him out Duane. He was just doing what he was supposed to.”
“I don’t care what anybody says. This dude is on some’in, I’m sure of it. You know what I’m saying? I mean, ain’t no human able to throw a punch that hard. Tyson never hit nobody that hard,” the manager was screaming with contempt.
“I didn’t…I didn’t want to…hurt,” Mark stammered.
Just then a man stepped through the ropes and approached Mark even before his family got to see him. “Mr. Religand, my name is…” He was interrupted by a cup full of beer hitting Mark in the back and a stream of obscenities, “You cost me ten thousand dollars, freak show.”
Mark responded, “Well, then maybe you shouldn’t gamble away your salary!”
The man continued, as did the tirade of insults from the intoxicated fan, “Anyway, my name is Frank Kabelski, and I work for Big Star Promotions in Los Angeles, California.”
“My God, this idiot doesn’t think I know what state L.A. is in,” Mark said to himself.
“I believe that I have just seen the most dazzling spectacle in the history of boxing. I actually came here to see Baxter.” The man looked at Mark up and down, noting that Mark barely had the body of a prize fighter. “But when I just saw what you did to one of the best middleweights in this state, I realized that I should be giving you the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“What is the opportunity of a lifetime?” Mark asked him.
“Keep your head shaven, and I think I can set up a fight between you and the middleweight champion of the world.”
“Wait, why do I have to keep my head bald?” Mark questioned the man. He had been letting his hair grow back since the operation, but it had only just begun to sprout.
“We’re going to set this up as a black champion versus the great white hope fight.”
“So you’re saying that I’m supposed to come off as a white supremacist? That’s going to be an impossible task. You see that black woman over there, and do you see the tall black man in my corner? Well, that is my wife and my father in law.”
Kabelski looked at both of them, and then he looked back at Mark. He was looking for an angle to market the fight. “Can you talk like a black man?” he asked Mark.
“What does a black man talk like?” Mark started to feel ashamed of himself for even speaking to this man.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m just looking for a way to promote this fight, and I just thought that…”
“You just thought that trying to make it look like a wanna be versus a real black champion was the only way it would work,” Mark snapped. “Well, I want nothing to do with it.”
“Mr. Religand, I assure you that I am not racist. I represent some of the top contenders in every weight class in boxing, and I would say that ninety percent of them are black. I have them to parties at my house all the time. You can ask around.”
Monroe swiftly appeared behind Kabelski. “Mark, this man hasn’t talked you into anything yet, has he?”
“And you are…?” Kabelski paused to let Monroe fill in the blank.
“I’m his manager, Monroe Harris. And who are you?”
“Frank Kabelski, Big Star Promotions.”
Mark was looking at his family. Tina had a very disturbed look on her face, as did Katie. Jack looked angry, but that was his normal look when he wasn’t smiling. Leanne had an expression of deep concern. And Alexia, not knowing any better, looked so filled with enthusiasm that she just might have popped. Carter had climbed through the ropes, and was now standing behind Monroe.
“No, he hasn’t talked me into anything,” Mark answered Monroe’s question from ten seconds ago.
“Okay then, what’s your proposal?” Monroe asked Kabelski.
“I am proposing a once in a lifetime fight for the middleweight championship of the world,” Kabelski paused, “An established black champion versus a spectacular white newcomer.”
“This is all happening pretty quick isn’t it?” Monroe questioned himself more than anyone else.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Harris. Your man here just busted a good fighter’s ribs with one body shot. That is amazing punching power,” Kabelski stated matter-of-factly. “I am sure that Jamal Tompkins would jump at the chance to take on the guy who did that.”
“He’ll bust his ribs too,” Carter broke in on the conversation.
“I’m pretty sure that he won’t. Your state’s top contender is one thing, but the champion of the world is another.” He hesitated then looked in Carter’s direction. “You must be the trainer.”
“That’s right, my name is Carter Evans.” Kabelski took a step towards Carter who shook the shady man’s hand reluctantly. “Ribs are ribs, correct? If they are then one punch to the champ’s side and he ends up on the ground, just like Baxter did.”
“Hey, I’m just here as an intermediary. You don’t have to fight him if you don’t want to. But let me make one thing clear, you’ll be missing out on a golden opportunity, as well a financial windfall.”
“How much?” asked Monroe anxiously.
“I’m not sure right now. I would have to ask management. But I would say in the neighborhood of five hundred thousand to one point five million.”
This kind of money was incomprehensible to Mark, who just stood there like he had seen God himself.
“That’s ridiculous. It would only be his third fight,” Carter retorted. “To fight the champion for a million dollars after two fights, it’s silly.”
“Well, here’s my card. If you wanna do it you can give me a call, and I’ll get to work on setting it up.”
Mark took the card and looked at it. He would have to Google Big Star Promotions when he got home. It had all sounded good to him. He didn’t know why everybody was troubled by the plan. He put his robe back on and started to climb out of the ring as the others remained in the ring talking business. Tina was standing there, just beneath him, holding Alexia. “Babe, tell me something, what kind of rush do you get by hitting somebody that hard?”
“It’s like the sweetest adrenaline rush I’ve ever felt,” Mark answered.
“But why do you need to break somebody’s ribs to get that feeling?”
“Daddy, you broke the other guy’s ribs?” Alexia interjected.
“I think so booka. But I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” he first responded to Alexia’s question. Then he turned his head to address Tina. “Do you understand that babe? I’m not even using my best punch... It’s really impossible to control the power of my punches. If I could I would make one of these fights go to a second round, at least.”
“Who’s the guy my daddy’s talking to?” Tina asked, changing the subject.
“He’s a promoter from L.A. Babe. I’m going to fight for the championship!”
“When, I mean how did you get a shot at the champion already?” Tina became excited.
“I don’t know. Your dad, my manager and him, they’re all working on the details.”
“This is so unbelievable. I don’t know what else to say. He actually thinks you stand a chance against a champion?” Tina was never at a loss for words for too long.
“I think he’s more concerned about the champ than for me. I promise you that when I win the fight and become the first straight up white man to hold the title, I will retire instantly,” Mark promised as he started to walk towards the locker room. When he reached the locker room door, he saw Jack leaning up against the wall. “Mark, Mark, what the he** are you doing?”
“What do you mean? It’s not like I am doing anything illegal.” Mark knew exactly what Jack meant.
“Shoot, my boy. You don’t think they’re going to check your medical records? You don’t think they’re going to find out that up until three weeks ago you were severely brain damaged?”
“They probably will, and do you know what I will tell them if they do? I’m going to tell them that I was miraculously healed, which won’t be lying. Then I will say that during those years that I was disabled, I’ve been pounding my body so hard that when I was cured, I was ready to throw bombs, just like I am doing right now.”
“So you don’t think you’re cheating then?” Jack asked.
“Oh, I understand. You’re saying that the same way I might be cheating now isn’t the same as being cheated out of employment all these years by people who weren’t half as qualified as I was – or like I wasn’t cheated out of the respect that someone as smart as I was deserved by being treated like a moron just because I didn’t speak as well or move as quickly.”
“Now I get it. It’s all about revenge and redemption for you. All of these years and nothing has changed. Thirty five-years-old and you are still the same angry little boy. Don’t you think it’s time you matured and gave up on the vindictiveness? I mean really, does it feel so good to beat up on guys that had nothing to do with your humiliation?”
“You want the truth? It doesn’t feel as good as it would to beat on the people who actually had something to do with it. I suppose I am using the other fighters as a substitute, but I see nothing wrong with that.”
“A substitute for who? For anyone that has been picked for a job ahead of you. I guarantee if you went out there now, you would be a shoe-in for any position you applied for.”
“I know. That’s the thing though. I don’t want a job that I never could have got when I was disabled. I was so sick of getting rejection letters in the mail for jobs that I would have been perfect for but I didn’t get because some quick talking, smooth moving guy was always ‘more qualified’, do you know what I’m saying?”
“Mark, for crying out loud man, you almost killed that guy!” exclaimed Jack, switching tactics. “Don’t you think for everyone’s sake you would be better off trying another sport?”
“Like what dad? Another sport like…” said Mark, prompting Jack for a reply.
“Basketball, or football, or swimming – I’d bet you could set every record imaginable if you wanted to swim.”
“You know what the thought of swimming competitively does to me? It makes me sick to my stomach. Tina washes the white clothes at home, the smell of bleach takes me back to the pool, and it nauseates me. I’m never going to put my nerves on the line like that again.”
“Well, what about football? You could take your frustrations out on the football field. Yeah, football, I know that it was always your dream to catch passes in the NFL. Or you could just put your skills on display in a show. That might be fun.” Jack’s arguments were becoming progressively weaker, and now he was just throwing ideas out blindly.
“I thought you were behind me on this. I thought you agreed that boxing would be a good sport to compete in.”
“I never said one way or the other. But now that I know that you just want to kill somebody,”
Jack reprimanded his son, “I must say that I’m against it.”
“My God dad, I’m not trying to kill anyone. I’m just getting a lot of frustration out of my system. Frustrations about not being employed, and anger towards all the people who used to call themselves my friends, but for some reason just disappeared.” Mark thought about his next words. “Now, you see that guy talking to Carter down there? He just offered me a shot at the championship. You can either be ringside or watch it on pay-per-view. Either way, I am going to fight for redemption.”
“And you’re supposed to be a Christian. If you are, you’re not behaving in a Christ-like manner. I thought you were supposed to find your redemption when you go to heaven.” Jack continued to prosecute him.
“Oh, no you didn’t dare to say that you know what Christ-like behavior is,” Mark said, feeling that he had to accuse Jack of being hypocritical. Attacking Mark’s motives was one thing, but to go so far as to question his faith in his Jesus was another.
“Okay, so I am not an expert on Christianity, but I do know that he says vengeance shall be his.”
“An eye for an eye, dad, an eye for an eye,” Mark said as he continued towards the locker room.
Jack yelled back, “Not one guy that you’re gonna fight has ever taken your eye, or your life, Mark!”
Mark just kept on walking past his dad, and entered the locker room, leaving Jack alone with his apprehensions. But Jack wasn’t about to leave well enough alone, as he stuck his head in the door and cried, “Come back home with me tonight, and I’ll take you over to the ‘Y’ tomorrow to see just what you’re capable of.”
“Okay, you can talk to Tina on the way out,” Mark responded with a defeated tone, knowing that Tina might have some reservations about her husband going home with his parents.
Mark entered the locker room and was stunned to find about twenty people gathered around the locker he had used. They were all talking to him at the same time, not one of them getting his attention. They were all from the local media. Obviously, somebody at the arena had called someone from one of the area’s TV channels; because professional boxing was a minor sport in this region, barely popular enough to merit a spot in the next morning’s paper. Word of the knockout must have spread quickly. There were four television cameras, all pointed at him and six or seven microphones in his face. “Mr. Religand, Mr. Religand, how do you explain your supernatural punching ability?” one reporter asked.
Another said, “Mr. Religand, are you taking a banned substance? Some fans are convinced that you are on some kind of new steroid.”
“Excuse me, excuse me.” Mark tried to get to his locker so he could at least take his clothes with him.
“Mr. Religand, do you have any comment on the allegations. If you claim that you are not taking a banned substance, then you will have no problem submitting a blood sample right now.”
“No, I sure wouldn’t.” Mark surprised the reporter with his answer.
A heavy set woman wearing a lab coat stepped forward from amongst the mass of people. “Okay sir, please remove your robe, and stick out your right arm,” the woman said.
Where did they come up with a nurse with a kit to take a blood sample in the middle of a sporting event? Mark wondered as he took off his robe and placed his right arm on the woman’s knee. Without warning, she stuck the needle in his arm and began to draw blood. After just one vile was taken she said, “That should do it.” Then she turned and left the room.
All of the reporters then rapidly started to evacuate the room. Monroe came in, ducking the frenzied throng.
“Was that blood you gave them?” Monroe asked.
“Yeah, I needed them all to leave, for now.” Mark was tired. “So where are we on the next fight?”
“August thirteenth, at the MGM Grand in Vegas, if you still want it; and your drug test comes back negative for performance enhancers.”
“I take a multivitamin everyday. I doubt they can call B-12 a performance enhancer.”
“Dude, you are incredible. Oh, and I’ve got your check for tonight here,” Monroe said proudly.
Mark again did the math quickly in his head. “I’ll be by tomorrow when you open the gym with seventy five hundred. That’s right isn’t it?”
“Man, you know me. You know that I’ve already got it worked out in my head. It feels like I’m not doing anything to earn it though, my man.”
“What are you talking about Monroe? You’ve been arranging all these fights.”
“The promoter came up with this one, so I’m feeling kinda, I don’t know…obsolete.”
“Hey, I liked you the first time I met you. As long as you are standing in my corner, you are my manager.”
Jack had already spoken with Tina and she was willing to let him go to his parents’ house for the night. The ride home was fairly silent, except for a few questions about the championship fight.
“I spoke with Dina today, and I told her that a new drug had regenerated the nerve cells, and I told her about the boxing,” Leanne said cautiously. “I’m gonna call your aunts and tell them tomorrow if that’s okay.”
“They’re gonna be shocked when they hear I’m gonna be fighting for the middleweight world championship. But that is so smart, mom – that you thought of the drug that regenerates neurons. Jeanie is gonna be so proud of me…”
“How many tickets do you think you’re gonna get?” Jack interrupted.
“I don’t know. I’ll get tickets for everybody if I can.”
The following morning, Jack woke a lethargic Mark at 10:30 and tossed a pair of swim trunks at him. “Let’s get going,” he said abruptly.
Mark wondered how his skills would translate in the water.
He got out of bed, showered and shaved with his dad’s razor. He hadn’t shaved with one of Jack’s razors in nine or ten years. He did all of this within fifteen minutes. He put his swim trunks in his gym bag, and headed to the kitchen for breakfast.
Jack was sitting at the table reading the sports page. “Well Mark, you earned a blurb on the bottom of page three.” Mark looked down and read the headline, “Local fighter’s ribs broken with one punch.” That was all that he needed to see.
“Does it say anything about how he’s doing?” Mark asked his dad as he slowly sat down.
“Yeah, he’s gonna be fine. He might not fight again for a year, but he’s gonna be okay.”
They made the five minute drive to the YMCA, and arrived there at 11:54, six minutes before the ‘Y’ opened its doors. While they were sitting in the car Jack asked, “If you can swim as well as you box, will you give up fighting?”
“Nope, I really want to keep fighting. Dad, I’ve never told you this, but the only reason I went out for the swim team in high school was that I felt you were ashamed of me about forgetting about football. You know that if I hadn’t practiced like a madman I would have sucked.”
“But you were good enough to make varsity swimming all four years,” Jack argued.
“I didn’t make varsity for four years because I was good. It was because I worked harder than anyone on the team. I had to work hard – because in my mind – I had let you down.”
“With your academic achievements… I mean, they would have been enough. You always showed so much potential in everything that you did.”
“That’s why I had to succeed in something, because your expectations were so high.”
“My expectations for you were not so high. I mean, I was never a superstar at anything either, and I never pushed you to succeed?” Jack sighed deeply. “I always knew that you would give anything you did a hundred and ten percent, that I would never have to motivate you.”
“I think I might have taken your silence to mean that you were disappointed in me.”
“I was always proud of you, Mark.”
Mark got out of the car, and Jack followed closely behind. The doors were unlocked when they got to them. When both men had gotten their suits on, they headed to the large eight lane pool.
Mark hadn’t been swimming in years. He got up on the lane one starting block and dove in. His now powerful legs pushed him one fourth of the way down the lane before he hit the water. When he surfaced a quiet voice inside him told him to try the butterfly. He thrust his whole body out of the water with his first kick, then his second, and his third. He wasn’t just doing the dolphin kick; he was actually swimming like a dolphin. His arms had to move incredibly fast to keep up with the propulsion of the kick. It was, by far, the most intoxicating feeling he had ever had in the water. The lifeguard came running down his ladder and over to Jack who was just standing there, staring in awe at his son. “Who is that?” the lifeguard asked Jack.
“That’s my son, Mark,” Jack replied.
“Amazing, he looks just like a porpoise or somethin’. I’ve never seen anyone do that before,” the lifeguard proclaimed.
“Yeah, he is certainly one of a kind,” Jack mumbled, not even thinking about the hidden truth behind the statement.
“He should be on the Olympic team or something, man.”
“He doesn’t want to swim competitively again,” Jack responded to the man’s suggestion.
“I wanna get a time on him, if that’s okay,” the lifeguard said.
Mark was back at the starting block already after completing fifty meters of butterfly in twenty seconds.
“Mark, Mark, this guy here wants to time you.” Jack was convinced that after swimming like he just had, Mark would want to try swimming as his sport again.
“I don’t want to be timed. I just want to enjoy myself,” Mark snapped.
“You heard him,” Jack told the lifeguard. “He doesn’t want to be timed.”
“Mark, that was beautiful. You’re absolutely sure you don’t want to give swimming a shot?” Jack asked him.
“Dad…it’s just like basketball or football. First of all, I would be one of the shortest professional basketball players in the world, and everybody would be checking my shoes for some kind of propulsion device when I flew over the rim. Football, I’m sure I would be good at, but who’s even gonna look at a five foot eight, one hundred and sixty-five pound walk-on. I mean, they would take one look at me and say, ‘You here to try out for Gatorade boy’?” With swimming there is the added factor of the disgusting memories. The feeling at the end of a race, gasping for air, and my lungs hurting so bad…”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. It’s gonna be boxing then, huh?”
“Just as soon as I win the title, I’m going to retire.” Mark said as he took off doing backstroke like he had a jet engine on his back, knifing through the water at far greater than world record speed.
Jack drove Mark home to the apartment that afternoon. Mark pulled the check for $50,000 out of his bag, and had Jack stop by the bank to make the deposit. He was physically spent, and when he got to the apartment, he gave his dad a hug and flopped into bed. It was Sunday June 5th, 2005. The championship fight was two months and six days away. He would have to get working tomorrow.
The first thing that Mark had to do the next morning was get Monroe his money. But he wisely thought that he shouldn’t show his face in that neighborhood again, considering what had happened when he dropped off the management papers. The fear that he had felt with that gun pointed at his head was still fresh in his mind, and he wasn’t about to go back and have the same thing happen. This time there might be a sniper ready to pick him off.
He called his Italian friend to see if he might be able to drop it off. “Sure thing bro’, I can do that for you,” he said without hesitation. Mark had already told Tina that she could tell these friends about the boxing, and they had, of course, asked what in the world had happened to cure him. For some reason, most people thought of Mark’s former disabled condition as a result of some disease, not an injury. Therefore, everyone thought that when Mark was healed, it would by a cure for an illness like the flu, something like that, or it would be by the hand of God. And that is what he let them think for now; that it was an amazing new drug, a gift from the Lord that regenerated brain cells.
“How’s the boxing going?” the friend asked.
“Pretty good, it’s going pretty good,” Mark replied.
“Have you had any fights yet? Oh yeah, you must’ve, if you want me to take a check to your manager. How’d it go?”
“Actually, I’ve had two fights. Both were first round K.O.s.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, bro’.”
“I was the one who knocked the other guys out,” Mark corrected him.
“I was just kidding,” the friend chuckled. “Tina told us earlier today. I just want to say that we’re so proud of you.”
“Thank you very much. We’re going to have to get together soon, so you can see the new me.”
“I didn’t even know it was you when I answered the phone, your voice sounds so much…I don’t know, deeper. You know, this is a gracious and merciful God at work bro’. I am really stunned, and I can’t wait to see you!”
“Well, come on over to pick up the check, and I’ll show you the new me, or is it the old me? I don’t know what to call it. You know, in one way it’s the old me, in that I can walk and talk just like I always did before the brain injury, but on the other hand, I’ve got these new abilities that I never had before. It’s outrageous.”
“I’m becoming more anxious by the second. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I just need to put my shoes on.”
Mark wrote out the check to Monroe for $7,500. It was by far the most money he had ever written a check out for. He had no reservations about writing a check for such a large amount, considering the fact that after his next fight he would be writing one out for somewhere between $75,000 and $225,000. He wondered why Kabelski had given him such a wide range of potential earnings. Then he figured it out. In the promoter’s mind there was actually a chance of him losing. The 1.5 million was the winner’s share, and the $500,000 was for the loser.
It had been exactly fifteen minutes when his friend knocked at the back door. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you bald.”
“Well, the medicine I took made some of my hair fall out, so I just decided to shave it all off.”
“Oh, I know what it is. It must have been radiation, some kind of gamma radiation. Now you’re like the Hulk.” This was the second comparison to the Hulk that Mark had gotten. Was this a coincidence, or was he destined to become a drifter, running from a reporter like TV’s old David Banner.
“No, it was just an injection of an experimental drug that regenerated the damaged nerve cells,” Mark explained.
“Well, let’s see you do something incredible.”
Mark stepped outside followed closely by his friend. He took off running across the parking lot, and into a field of grass next to and behind the apartments’ garbage dumpsters. When he got to the road beyond the field, he stopped on a dime and ran back; getting faster the farther he came.
“That…was…the greatest thing I have ever seen,” his friend slowly declared.
“Thank you. It sure is a big change from the old Mark, isn’t it?”
“Hey, Tina mentioned something about you fighting for some championship. What’s that all about?”
“Oh yeah, I’m gonna be fighting for the middleweight championship.”
“Whoa, you’ve got to be kidding me. So you’re gonna be on TV?”
“I’m pretty sure it’ll be on pay-per-view. You’ll be able to watch, won’t ya’?”
“There’s no way I’d miss it,” he assured Mark. “Now, where am I going to take this check?”
Mark told him where to take it and who to give it to. Then the phone started to ring inside, so he gave his friend a quick hug, and dashed back in the door to find the phone. After two pulses the phone stopped ringing; Tina had apparently picked up in the bedroom. “Mark, it’s for you, babe!” she cried. He found the second handset on the couch and answered “Hello”
“Yes, Mr. Religand, this is Belinda Chase from the state’s Athletic Board. I’m just calling to let you know that the blood sample you gave to the reporter from channel 6 here last night came back negative for any drug or banned substance.”
“Thank you for calling to let me know. Now if you could broadcast it throughout the country, I would really appreciate it.”
“The news is already being released to the public. And may I add a ‘good luck’ in your title fight in August.”
“Thank you.”
Mark had to check the newspaper to see the story. The next morning he had Tina buy him the paper from his old home town rather than one from where they lived now, because it was where the fight took place and it was a better newspaper. He checked the first page of the sports section. It was not big enough to make page one. On the second page there was a bold headline, “Local fighter gets shot at middleweight title.” He began to read the story: “Coming out of nowhere and after only two fights, local middleweight Mark Religand will face Jamal Tompkins for the undisputed middleweight championship of the world on August 13 at the MGM grand in Las Vegas. In an unprecedented move, the thirty-five-year old fighter has been given a shot at the title after knocking out his first two opponents in spectacular style. The second K.O. was against the state’s second ranked middleweight, Baxter Morris, after just five punches. Both knockouts came in the opening seconds of the first round, and the K.O. of Morris was the result of a crushing uppercut to the body that broke the top contender’s ribs in two places. Said Morris after the fight, ‘I didn’t know what hit me. It was like a freight train slamming into my side. The strangest thing was before the body shot, he hit me with four jabs that I never even saw.’ The speed and strength of Religand had prompted many fans to accuse him of using some type of new anabolic steroid. However, a blood test conducted immediately after the fight showed no indication of use of performance enhancing drugs.”
Then Mark turned the paper over to check out how his favorite baseball team was doing. Baseball was one sport that he never had any aptitude for, but he still followed the local major league team religiously. They had been losing for years, but he still maintained his loyalty to them. He would have liked to have helped them, but hitting a ball moving ninety miles an hour still felt as if it would be impossible, and although he might be able to throw a pitch 110 miles an hour, he would probably end up hitting a fan or a batboy in the face with it.
The training for the next two months was the toughest so far. Carter was working on Mark’s arms and chest almost exclusively now. They had come to the conclusion together that he would never get his final two abdominal muscles to show, so they were going to have to settle for a four pack. Mark’s arms got bigger and keeping his weight less than 165 lbs. was beginning to become problematic. When he stepped on the scale with one month before the fight, he weighed 167 lbs.
He would have to cut back a little on his intake of saturated fats, and maybe even raise the intensity level of his cardio workouts. Mark’s muscles were in peak condition now, but his lungs were still the lungs of a thirty-five-year old man. When he ran or jumped rope strenuously, his heart beat so hard and so fast, it felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest, and he would get a strange iron-like taste in his mouth. If the upcoming fight lasted any more than two rounds, he might be in trouble.
The weeks passed by, things were looking positive, and Mark’s body was in fantastic shape. Then on the sixth of August, the terror returned.
Tina and Alexia had gone to Carter and Katie’s to get a few things Tina needed to make her special Italian bake casserole. He was walking out of his bedroom and into the doorway separating the living room from the hall. There was a mirror on the opposite side of the living room and Mark liked to check his arms in it as he entered. The reflection this time was of two people, and this time Mark knew who the second person was. It was him just a few months after the poisoning. He recognized the figure from pictures taken at Christmas that year. The muscles in his face at that time were so stiff that he looked like a zombie. This time, the figure spoke to him in the horribly grating monotone that had remained with him until the microchip had been implanted, “Why are you doing this to me?”
Mark was so terrified he couldn’t manage to scream. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He turned around, slowly this time in order not to lose the image in his peripheral vision. But in the microsecond it took to change his line of sight from the mirror to the hallway behind him, the apparition had again disappeared. However, it continued to speak to him, using a variety of vulgarities to express its displeasure at what Mark was doing. Mark finally found his voice and began to scream, “Leave me alone… Satan, shut up!”
“I am not the evil one here, you are. You have become so absorbed with your success that you have forgotten who you are.”
“No, I don’t believe that,” Mark yelled at the top of his voice. “God wouldn’t have allowed this if it wasn’t his will!”
“God has forsaken you. His plans for you have always been clear. You have tried to kill yourself four times. Death by your own hands has always been his will for you. I have the power to turn that around. Just say you no longer have faith in Jesus, and I will give you riches beyond your wildest dreams. I will give you more women than in your wildest fantasies.”
The Holy Spirit gave Mark the words to say, “You must be a stupid demon. All the riches in the world have no meaning for me. I have uncountable riches waiting for me in heaven. And your offer of all the women, I am thirty-five. I am so far past my sexual prime. Sex is nothing to me now but an expression of love for my wife. I bind you right now, in Jesus’ name!”
“So, what are you fighting for then?” the evil spirit asked him.
Mark thought about his answer carefully because he realized in his heart that his motives were not pure. “I am fighting for redemption,” he shouted, “for all of the people who have rejected me in the past.”
“Ah ha, so you’re fighting because you are angry, because you are filled with hatred?”
“No, I don’t hate anybody. I just want to show them that they were wrong about me, that they made a mistake. Now, in Jesus’ name, get out of my house!”
The demon said one last thing, sending chills down Mark’s spine, “We will see you next Saturday.”
There was no way Mark could tell anybody about this encounter. For one, it was nearly unbelievable. It might also indicate a spiritual weakness; actually allowing a demon to speak to him audibly. The good thing was that he at least knew exactly what he was dealing with now. It was, beyond doubt, a servant of the devil. Nonetheless, the picture he could not remove from his mind was the close image of himself as a blank faced, slow talking, brain damaged eighteen-year-old. This image might just be with him until the end of his life.
Monroe called Mark’s house on the following Wednesday with the news that they would be flying first class and their flight would be leaving from O’Hare Friday at 4:15pm. They would be staying at the MGM grand in deluxe accommodations. Seats and reservations had been secured for Tina and Carter. If anyone else wanted to come, they would have to purchase tickets and hotel rooms on their own.
Mark had already stopped training vigorously, and his muscles were in the process of repairing themselves and ready to peak. This was something he had recalled from his days as a swimmer – that is – you always taper the intensity of your workouts leading up to a major event.
He was becoming nervous for the first time, not because he was scared of losing, but due to the size of the audience. He had never been comfortable performing or speaking in front of a large group of people, even though it was never visibly apparent and he always gave the impression of being calm and relaxed. He remembered the fights he had seen in recent years, and remembered the ring announcer saying, “And for the millions at home watching on television.” How many of his old friends, co-workers, acquaintances would be watching?
The phone rang on Thursday afternoon. It was a representative from the WBA, “Mr. Religand, my name is John Mulhern, I am a medical representative from the World Boxing Association, and I’m calling to inform you that you are under investigation for fraudulent behavior.”
“What kind of fraudulent behavior,” Mark inquired smoothly. He knew that there was no way anyone could pin any kind of wrongdoing on him.
“Well sir, we’ve contacted one of your physicians in your area and it has come to our attention that you were, until three months ago, severely disabled.”
So much for HIPPA, Mark thought. “And exactly how does that constitute fraud?”
“You have to admit that it appears rather suspicious that up until May of this year you had a profound physical impairment, and now you are performing at such a high level,” Mr. Mulhern charged.
“Do you really want me to explain? Mark asked. Without waiting for a reply he began, “I have taken part in a very exclusive experimental trial at the National Institute of Neurological Disease and Stroke, and the area of my brain that was injured has been restored. The way that I am able to perform at the level that I have been is that during the time that I was disabled, I pushed my body beyond what would be normal limits, and when my brain damage was repaired, it allowed me to function at my present level.”
“Who would I contact to confirm this experimental treatment?”
“I just told you, it’s a highly, uh… confidential thing.” Mark was becoming anxious. “But if you really need to talk to somebody, you can try to call a Doctor ‘Aikman,’ and he’ll tell you whatever he can. I’m not sure exactly how much that’s gonna be, but he’s the man to talk to.”
“And that’s at the NINDS, in Washington D.C?” Mulhern asked, pronouncing each letter of the abbreviation.
“That’s right.”
“Thanks for your cooperation.”
Jack had been correct; authorities had gained possession of his medical records. And the result had been more or less what Mark said it would be. He had given his explanation without lying, but also without using the words “computer chip” or “artificial neurons.”
After hanging up, Mark began to wonder what Aikman would tell the WBA. Would he be ratted out? Probably not, considering all the warnings that everybody had been given. He would most likely tell them the exact thing Mark had just presented them with, that his damaged brain cells had been restored. Just how they had been regenerated was the improbable secret that nobody could know.
The next morning Mark stepped on the scale. It read 163 lbs. This was perfect, he thought. He wouldn’t need to lose or gain any weight in the next twelve hours. A normal breakfast and a small lunch would suffice. He figured final weigh-ins would be sometime around 7:30 Vegas time. He would have to find something to keep his mind occupied until leaving for Chicago at 3:00pm. He could play with Alexia. That was always a time killer. “Hey Lex, you wanna go outside and play?”
“Sure, let me get my baby.” Alexia had a dozen baby dolls, so it was always interesting to see which one she would bring out of her room.
“And bring a ball too,” Mark told her.
They went outside and sat on the front step of the apartment building. Alexia played with her baby while Mark soaked in some of the mid-August sun.
“Daddy, what happened when you wouldn’t wake up?” Alexia asked him out of the blue.
At first, Mark didn’t know what she was talking about. Then it hit him. She was talking about the suicide attempt she had witnessed.
“I was very sick, booka.”
“But then when I saw you again, the sickies in your head were gone and you were able to do great things like you are now.” She was wondering what the coma and the healing had to do with each other.
“Yeah, they took me to a place where they were able to wake me up, and fix the sickies in my head,” he explained.
“So, if you hadn’t gone to sleep and couldn’t wake up, then you wouldn’t be all better now?”
“Probably not.” He couldn’t bear to tell her that he had been trying to end his life.
The next few hours passed very slowly. Mark didn’t own a watch, so he was continually asking Alexia to go inside to check what time it was: Noon, 1:45, 2:15, and then it was 2:45. It was time to go inside to get ready to depart. Tina’s oldest brother, Carter III and his wife Lisa had agreed to watch Alexia while Mark and Tina were gone. Katie had reluctantly decided she would come to sin city to see the fight, but that’s all. The whole family gathered in the kitchen to pray before they left.
The first class flight from O’Hare to Vegas felt incredibly short, as did the Limo ride from the airport to the MGM Grand hotel. There was a small group of reporters gathered at the front door, much fewer than Mark would have thought. One was from ESPN, and it was this man who asked most of the expected questions. Then while checking in at the front desk, it occurred to him that despite having won his first two fights in unreal fashion, he was still the underdog. The champion had most likely been at the Bellagio for the past week watching the reports about the man he was supposed to destroy.
The rooms at the MGM were gorgeous, equipped with everything that could be desired. And it was all free, paid in full by the hotel itself. Tina and Mark were in one suite, Katie and Carter in another, and Monroe had a single room. There was a knock at Mark and Tina’s door at 5:45. “Who is it?” Mark shouted.
“Uh, candy gram,” a soft voice mumbled.
“Seriously, who’s there?” Mark asked again.
“It’s Rebecca Ramirez,” was the answer.
Both Religands had sudden flashbacks to three months ago when the FBI agent would come knocking at their hotel room door, either to wake them up, or to hurry them along in order to avoid being late for the day’s testing.
“We’ve already donated to the FBI at the office,” Mark yelled back.
Ramirez laughed deeply. “Very funny, come on Mark, open up. I have something I need to discuss with you.”
Mark opened the door and Ramirez danced in like a fighter, bouncing around him with her fists at her chin. “Boy, you’ve made a name for yourself pretty quickly. I’m sure I could still whoop you though.”
“It’s nice to see you again,” Tina said anxiously, knowing that what might follow would either be good news or very bad news.
Ramirez walked quickly up to Tina and gave her a big hug. Rebecca Ramirez was definitely an atypical FBI agent. Then she turned around and embraced Mark for a good five seconds. “Long time – no see,” she said with sadness.
“So, you’re not watching us anymore?” Tina asked.
“No, we’re on a new assignment. It was difficult to start something new after being on your case for so long, but the transition has been smooth.”
“You said that you have something to talk to us about,” Mark repeated what she had said at the door.
“That is correct,” she paused to think of how to say it. “Doctor Aikman was contacted yesterday afternoon by somebody named Mulhern from the WBA. He was looking for information concerning fraudulent activities by you. He said that you had told him that you were taking some kind of new drug that enhanced your performance.”
“Oh wow, what a stupid opening statement,” Mark said.
“It sure was. And it played right into the doctor’s hands,” Ramirez asserted. “Doctor Aikman told the man that you had taken part in an experimental treatment that restored damaged neurons in your brain, but nothing that would enhance your physical abilities beyond what they would normally be. Then the man asked him how could he explain your speed and strength, and Doctor Aikman said that while you were disabled, the stress on your body made you strong, and all you needed were some new brain cells to give you your new skills.”
“Wow, that’s almost exactly what I told him when he called me,” Mark attested.
“You didn’t tell me anyone had called.” Tina couldn’t stand when her husband kept secrets from her.
“I didn’t want you to worry, babe,” Mark told her.
“Well anyhoo, you are good to go my man,” Ramirez assured him. “I’ll be rootin’ for you tomorrow night.” She started to walk towards the door.
“Hold on, are you going to be here tomorrow night?” Tina asked her. “I mean will you be at the fight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. My brother was a boxer before he developed Huntington’s disease,” she took a couple of steps then said, “I would say good luck, but I don’t think you’ll be needing it, dude. Love you guys.”
“See you later,” Mark and Tina said together.
The press conference and final weigh-ins were delayed for fifteen minutes because the champion was late getting there from The Bellagio. There was an immense crowd of media people downstairs as Mark and his tiny entourage got off the elevator. “Mark, over here,” came a shout from across the room. It was Kabelski calling him over to the scales. The group of four made their way through the maddening crowd of press members. It took three minutes to walk all of twenty yards. Nobody seemed very interested in Mark, though. Their eyes were on the doors awaiting Tompkins.
Mark had his robe on with his boxing shorts underneath. He had looked at his body one last time in the mirror upstairs, and although he was in the best physical condition of his life, he wasn’t happy with it. Genetics was a powerful thing, and he just didn’t have the genes of a ripped fighter.
The champ finally arrived at 7:45, and there was a frenzied dash to meet him as soon as he entered. Mark could faintly make out the words of the reporters, but they all blended together so as to make them incomprehensible. Tompkins was bobbing up and down as he made his way over to the scales. Mark watched him as he approached Kabelski and saw him shake his hand, lean over and whisper in his ear. Kabelski laughed boldly and the champ followed suit. Apparently, something was very funny.
The challenger was always weighed first, so Mark was shoved towards the scale and after removing his robe, he climbed on. The announcer shouted above the increasing volume, “The challenger, Mark Religand, one hundred sixty-three and one quarter pounds.” The champ walked by Mark as he got off the scale and winked at the skinny white man. The champ took his robe off and got on, “The champion, Jamal Tompkins, one hundred sixty-four pounds even.” It was strange, Mark thought, he looked so much heavier.
The fighters were both showed to the table where the press conference would take place. Sitting next to Mark were Monroe, Carter, and Tina in that order. Tompkins had seven people with him. It was unclear who they all were.
Kabelski walked up to the microphone in the middle and spoke, “Over the past decade, the popularity of the sport of boxing has been waning. However, we believe we have a fight that could help revive it. In an unprecedented move, all of the governing bodies of boxing have approved the match-up of an unknown fighter from Racine, Wisconsin who has been called the newest great white hope, and the undisputed middleweight champion of the world, Jamal Tompkins. This fight has been called a ridiculous mismatch. I have seen Mark Religand fight, however, and I can assure you that despite coming out of nowhere, and being nine years older than the champ, he possesses punching power that is unequaled by anyone I have ever seen in the ring.” Mark looked over at the champ to see if there was any look of concern on his face. He must have been watching the reports of Mark’s punches, because there was no reaction.
Then Kabelski opened the floor up for questions. There were a few questions directed at Mark concerning his “coming out of nowhere” but most of the questions were for Tompkins, who was repeatedly asked why he had agreed to fight a man with only two fights under his belt. The champ always responded cordially by saying something like, “Because the promoter told me that this guy is very good and very dangerous.” Then one reporter asked Mark, “Do you think you have any chance of winning?”
“I haven’t fought anybody in his league, so I don’t know what to expect. But I have to go in being confident that I can win, otherwise what’s the point in doing it?”
Just like that, the conference was over. The champ got in his limo, and Mark went back up to his suite. It was 9:00pm. There were twenty-two hours until the fight. At 10:00 the phone rang. Mark thought it might be his parents calling to check on him. “Hello,” Mark answered the rather large, old school phone.
“You’re gonna lose this fight, white boy,” the man on the other end said.
“Why do you say that?” asked an intrigued Mark. “‘Cuz no white man can have this title?”
“Naw dude, ‘Cuz if you win, I’m gonna kill ya.”
“Hold on, is this Boobie?” Boobie was Tina’s younger brother and was the only person Mark would have expected to pull something like this. His name was really Cornelius, and Mark didn’t know where he had gotten his nickname from. He had the sense of humor of an expert comedian. It had to be Boobie.
“Who the he** is Boobie?”
It still might be Boobie, Mark thought.
“What is he talking about?” Tina asked.
“Something about killing me if I win,” Mark replied uneasily.
“Let me see the phone,” Tina told Mark, and then to the person on the phone asked, “Who is this?”
“It don’t matter who this is, sista. Your man is going to lose tomorrow night, or he’s gonna die.”
“Yeah well, I’m pretty sick of him anyway, so you can kill him. Yup, you go ahead and kill him. You know what else, bro’? He really wants to die anyway, so you’d be doing him a favor too. I’m just interested, why would you kill him if he won? I mean, if you hate him that much, why not kill him even if he loses? Why not just kill him for the heck of it before the fight? You got money riding on this?”
“Naw, it’s just white dudes have taken everything from me, you know what I’m saying?
and if he takes another thing from a black man, I’m just gonna snap?”
“Oh, now I know what you’re saying. Would it help to know that up until four months ago, my husband was severely disabled, and hadn’t worked in five years ‘cuz nobody would hire him? He lost his last job ‘cuz he married a black woman.”
“Yeah, how’d he learn to fight so fast?”
“He’s been fighting all of his life.”
“Okay, I guess he’s straight then. I won’t do nothing to him.”
“Thank you.”
This was the only threat they received on Mark’s life, and the rest of the night went by without disturbance.
Mark got what amounted to about three hours of sleep, tossing and turning in the King sized bed. Tina, as usual, slept like an infant, deep and peaceful.
In the morning Monroe came and got Mark to take him down to see the arena where the fight would take place. “Are you getting nervous, man?” he asked Mark.
“A little bit. You?”
“I am so nervous, my stomach is tied in knots,” Monroe replied. “I just want you to know somethin’, I am so grateful for this opportunity. I think of where I was four months ago, and where I am today. I just can’t believe it.”
“I’m not the one who deserves the credit. It is only by the grace of God either of us is here,” Mark testified.
“I know, man. But you could have walked into any other gym in Racine and picked any other old man to be your manager.”
“I could have, but I walked into yours. You don’t think God had it planned that way?” Mark asked as he climbed in the ring and started to dance and throw punches.
“Man, I think we both know that there’s no way a man like you could throw punches like that. Be honest with me, bro’, what’s up?”
“Honest? Honestly, I’m a robot.” Mark was halfway serious, but of course Monroe considered it extremely humorous.
“You’re a very strange man, Mark.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I suppose I don’t.”
At 6:00pm it was time to start getting ready. Mark had been on the side of his bed praying for the last two hours. Tina came in and said, “Babe, don’t you think you should start getting dressed?”
“What do ya’ mean? All I’ve gotta put on is my shorts, shoes, and robe.”
“I think it’s gonna involve a little more than that this time,” Tina suggested.
“Oh yeah, I’ve gotta get oiled up too, don’t I? Tell me something, does my body even warrant oiling up?”
“You might not see it, but I think you look amazing,” Tina assured her husband. She then walked over and kissed him for nearly fifteen seconds. It was then time to head downstairs. On their way to the door, she turned and said, “I am very proud of you. No matter what happens, the money will lift us out of poverty. I am so proud of you for putting your body on the line for us, for your family.”
The dressing room was very quiet as Mark put his shorts on. He was wearing blue (his favorite color) with white trim. Then he put his shoes on. He wasn’t famous (or infamous) enough yet to have a shoe sponsor, so he just wore the old pair of off brand boxing shoes that he had been wearing. And then his gloves went on. Monroe helped him tape them on while Tina and Carter watched. Finally, it was time to oil up his torso and apply Vaseline around his eyes.
Carter then stepped forward and began praying without having to be prompted. “Lord God, we just come before you tonight as your humble servants, father. We thank you for what you’ve done in all our lives. We thank you for what you’re going to do tonight, Lord, as if it is already done, in Jesus’ name. God we thank you for Mark, without whose courage none of this would be possible. Lord, we thank you for the doctor who gave him his life back, in Jesus’ name. Lord we thank you for the finances that this fight is going to provide, may they provide the family with sustaining bread for a long time. And father, we ask you to keep Mark safe as he steps into the ring with a seasoned, veteran opponent, in Jesus’ name, Amen.”
Everybody said “Amen” and then it was just a matter of waiting for the word to come out and greet the madness which could be heard from the dressing room. “Mark, you know that this atmosphere is going to be like none you’ve ever competed in before, right?” Monroe stated.
“Yeah, I realize that my friend,” Mark responded.
“You just keep your composure until the fight starts. When it starts, though, there is no such thing as composure. You know what I’m saying?”
Mark simply nodded his head.
A tall, lanky man wearing a tuxedo stuck his head in the door and said, “Mr. Religand, it’s time, my man.” When had he suddenly become everybody’s ‘man’? Mark wondered.
They all made their way out the door and down a long, low-lit hallway which seemed to be a mile long. It finally turned and two large doors were opened by hotel security. There was an outburst of applause as Mark entered the arena and a lot of screaming women, young and old, black and white. “I love you, Mark!” he heard most of them saying. What the heck, he thought; they have no respect for his wife. She was standing right next to him.
As they were making their way towards the ring, Mark began to tremble a little on the inside. Monroe had been right – Mark had never in his life been a part of anything so big. He looked around briefly at the maddening crowd before they made it to the ring. He saw Ramirez and Whiting, who both gave him a thumb’s up. They were in the third row. Then he looked directly to his right and saw the HBO crew and announcers at the long media table. They were stone faced as they spoke into the microphones words that Mark couldn’t quite make out. Then he reached his corner. Monroe looked at him with an odd expression. “Dude, it’s your time now. Climb into the ring!”
Mark stepped up and ducked beneath the second rope. It was all very exhilarating and his heart was beating very rapidly. “Keep your robe on until the champ gets here,” advised Monroe. Mark was now just eager to start fighting. He hadn’t hit anyone since the fight with Baxter Morris, and Monroe had determined that it wasn’t safe to come to the gym to spar since the shooting incident.
He was trying to stay loose by prancing around like a show-horse, and he gazed out into the now slightly subdued crowd. He couldn’t see anyone else he recognized, save for a few celebrities. He then glanced a couple of dozen rows back and saw a familiar face. It was Dr. Aikman. He must have noticed Mark’s surprise, because he waved with one hand and gave him a vigorous punching motion with the other. Mark suddenly calmed down. He didn’t know if it was seeing the doctor that had slowed his heart or just that he had been dancing around for three minutes now.
Jamal Tompkins then entered the arena to a half of a standing ovation and the other half of full blown animosity. The champ was apparently widely popular with some and completely unaccepted by others. He traveled through the crowd fairly quickly for an established champion. Boxing had indeed lost its luster, but Mark knew that he could bring it back.
The champ climbed in the ring and gave Mark the classic ‘now it’s time for business’ look. The ring announcer then stepped to the center of the ring and grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the MGM grand hotel and casino. And now for the thousands in attendance and the millions watching around the world…L-l-l-l-et’s get ready to r-r-r-r-uuuum-m-m-m-ble!” Mark felt a cold chill go up his spine, as the announcer continued, “Your main event of the evening is a ten round bout for the undisputed middleweight championship of the world. In the red corner, fighting out of Racine, Wisconsin, weighing in at one hundred and sixty-three and one quarter pounds and wearing blue with white trim, with a limited record of two wins – both by first round knockouts – against zero defeats, Mark ‘The wrecking ball’ Religand.” The crowd erupted for the little white man who was a twenty to one underdog. Mark wondered for a second where the nickname had come from. Monroe leaned over and whispered, “I came up with that.”
The ring announcer continued, “And in the blue corner, fighting out of Los Angeles, California, weighing in at one hundred sixty-four pounds and wearing black with white trim, with a record of twenty-seven wins – nineteen by the way of knockout – against three defeats, the undisputed middleweight champion of the world, Jamal 'The typhoon' Tompkins."
Tompkins danced around the ring to a chorus of mixed adulation and enmity.
The fighters were then called to the center of the ring where the referee gave them their instructions, which Mark again blocked out as he studied the face of the champion. The only thing he heard was, “Okay fellas, touch gloves and come out fighting.” He raised his gloves and pushed them forward into the champ’s. Tompkins was obviously more prepared for the order because he jolted Mark with a jarring two fisted punch. “Be careful, white boy,” he muttered.
They returned to their corners and had their mouth pieces placed. Mark turned towards heaven for a split second and said “thanks” to the King. The bell rang and Mark danced to his left, as did Tompkins, who was dazzled by Mark’s footwork. Tompkins wondered how he was going to hit somebody bouncing so high. Mark stopped moving for a half of a second then started bouncing to his right, and Tompkins followed his lead. “Come on Jamal, move in and hit him!” Tompkins’ trainer yelled. He stopped moving and stepped to his left to intercept Mark. He threw a few jabs which Mark ducked easily. Mark then hit the champ with two jabs that snapped Tompkins’ head back. The champ looked stunned. The punches had literally come out of nowhere.
Mark then made the grave mistake of looking at the media table to see the announcers’ reaction. Sitting there right beside the man calling the fight was the horrible image that had been haunting him. This time though, it was wearing what looked like a hospital gown. It was shaking its head again with loathing. It didn’t truly frighten him this time, however, but it distracted him enough for a belligerent Tompkins to sneak a punch in. It was a solid right hook that landed cleanly on Mark’s chin. Mark hadn’t taken a good punch from a good fighter yet, and the blow rocked him slightly.
Mark re-focused with indignation in his heart now. He wasn’t going to be distracted again. Tompkins must have over-estimated the impact of his punch, because he moved in as if he had hurt the smaller man. Mark moved to his left, and slipped another lightning fast jab right in the middle of the champ’s nose. For the first time, Mark threw a combination. After landing the jab, he hit Tompkins with a thunderous right hook to his ribs. Kabelski had been right, for some reason, Tompkins bones were a lot softer than Baxter Morris’ had been, for although the champ cringed in pain, no ribs were broken.
Unbelievably, the bell rang to end the first round. For the first time in three fights, an opponent had made it through the first round with Mark. The fighters went to their corners. Mark sat down and Monroe quickly asked him, “Dude, what happened? You had him dazed after the first two jabs.”
“I was distracted. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again,” Mark replied.
In Tompkins’ corner, they had stuck a piece of tissue up his right nostril. The tissue was already soaked in blood. Mark couldn’t tell if he had broken the champ’s nose with one of his jabs or not. Tompkins was, without a doubt, confused about the man he was fighting. Mark could hear bits and pieces of the conversation. He heard something like, “I never saw the jabs, man. Who the he** is this guy?” from the champ.
“I don’t know, Jamal. Just try to stay away, and we’ll hope he tires himself out, okay?”
The bell to start the second round rang, and both fighters again came dancing out. This time, however, Tompkins did all he could to stay out of reach of Mark’s jab. As Mark circled the ring, he glanced at his corner. Now the horrifying spirit appeared there standing next to Carter. This image was of him a week after he had fallen off his parent’s front steps, gigantic black eye and all. He was mouthing something to Mark and then he started laughing. Mark was trying to decipher what the image was saying when Tompkins moved in on the clearly distracted challenger. Jamal hit Mark with a hard straight right hand that knocked him down onto the canvas. It wasn’t hard enough to knock Mark out, but it made him furious. Tompkins danced to his corner with his fists in the air like he had knocked out the challenger.
` Mark figured out what the vision was saying. It was trying to tell him to “look out.” Mark’s head was starting to hurt, but then he realized something. If it had taken a fall of nearly five feet onto his face and a blow-out fracture of his orbital bone to knock him out eight years ago, there was no way one punch from a boxing glove, even one from a great fighter, would be able to knock him out in the present.
The ref hadn’t even gotten to two when Mark got to his feet and moved in on Jamal, who had turned around in shock to find Mark on his feet. Mark was fuming with anger now, and he moved in rapidly. In most boxing matches, when a fighter gets knocked down, the one who knocked him down will invariably sense the other’s vulnerability and move in for the kill. In this case, though, Mark was so irate that he was the one on the offensive. He threw two jabs, both hitting Tompkin’s right eye with so much force that blood from his nose splattered onto the crowd behind him. Mark was now going to make the champ pay for the audacity of knocking him down. He started to throw booming combinations, some punches landing on Tompkins’ sides, some on his temples and chin, and mixed in were some to the middle of his torso. Tompkins was in a corner now, trying to guess where the next shot was coming from and where it was going to land. He was suffering, wanting to just fall to the floor and stay there, but the occasional gut crushing uppercut kept him from going down.
The crowd was taken aback. Was this man trying to kill the champion? As much as the shrewd boxing crowd enjoyed a good slugfest, they were now frightened for Tompkins’ life.
Mark kept hammering away until he understood what he was doing. He was just as unstable and volatile as he had always been. When Jack had said he was still the same angry little boy, he didn’t want to hear it. Mark backed away from Jamal, and the champion of the world, who was now unconscious, crumpled to the canvas like a wet rag. Mark looked on in horror as Tompkins’ trainer and a number of medical personnel ran into the ring. Mark was now backing into his corner, his eyes still on the fallen fighter.
When Mark felt his back up against the ropes just to the left of his corner, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see somebody waiting to console him. Instead, he was face to face with himself as a seventeen year old, laughing jovially and saying, “You did it, man. You killed him. I’ll bet you’re happy now. It’s just what you’ve always wanted to do.” Mark recoiled in terror, as he swung around and tried to hit the apparition. The crowd’s attention was drawn away from the pile of beaten flesh which was Tompkins’ body to the bizarre sight of Mark throwing a punch in the air with a fearful look on his face. The ref stepped over to Mark, raised his arm in the air and hollered, “Winner!”
Monroe, Carter and Tina were all trying to get to Mark. It was clear that whatever damage he had done to Jamal, it was direly serious. Whatever he had done in his altered, infuriated state had nearly beaten Tompkins to death. He quickly became aware of the emotion that he was now feeling; it was the same regret that he had felt on the day of his last suicide attempt, when Katie had shut the door behind her after he had finished spanking Alexia. He felt a sinking in his gut and he wondered to himself why in heaven’s name was he still alive, why his life had been spared once again when all he did was hurt people. He regrettably concluded that he must kill himself before he killed somebody innocent.
He climbed out of the ring and suddenly there were innumerable microphones stuck in his face, flashes of pictures being taken, and television cameras in every path leading away from the ring. Reporters were shouting at him from all sides. “Mark, Mark, a quick question, please, can you answer one question?” Mark was in a dazed state of bewilderment, and he heard nothing but the voice inside his head. He grabbed his head as he proceeded to bump into reporters and started shrieking, “Get it out. Get it out!”
Tina, Carter and Monroe were on the opposite side of the ring trying to push their way through the insanity of the frenzied crowd of media, officials and medical staff. They had no idea where Mark was going. Tina was leading the way, pushing people out of the way as she went. The ring announcer managed to reach the center of the ring right in front of her and started, “Ladies and Gentlemen, in a shocking knockout one minute and forty-three seconds into the second round,” he paused to avoid Tina, “your new undisputed middleweight champion of the world, Mark Religand.” He used a remorseful tone, like someone who was admitting to some kind of wrongdoing.
Doctor Aikman knew where Mark might be headed, and he was the only one to move towards the exit at the rear of the arena, while everybody else seemed to be moving in the direction of the ring to view the carnage of what was left of the former champion. Aikman had, in truth, been following his prize patient with his eyes as soon as Mark had stepped between the ropes. He was the only person watching who had a notion of what might be going on. When he had heard Mark screaming while holding his head, his worst fears had become a reality.
Mark bounced past two security guards at the door, one of which was foolish enough to say, “Mr. Religand, you think I could get your autograph for my son? It would…” that was as far as he got as Mark raced by him. “Son of a b****, these dudes are so spoiled and dramatic. They never wanna do anything for the little guy,” one of the guards said to the other.
“Elevator, elevators,” Mark mumbled to himself as he turned one of the many corners on the first level of the hotel. He was chewing on the tape holding the glove on his right hand, trying desperately to remove it. This area looked familiar, he thought, as he passed by the gift shop. There they were. The elevators were right in front of him. He removed the glove just as he arrived at the doors. He pressed the button to go up, and the doors opened immediately. He looked at the columns of buttons in front of him and saw the highest he could go was the penthouse. He should be able to make it from there, he thought, and pressed the PH button.
Dr. Aikman turned the final corner just as the doors closed, and he saw the discarded boxing glove sitting by the elevator. He ran down the hall and pressed the up button too. There were two sets of elevators, one right next to the other and the doctor looked up to see where Mark’s was. His fears were correct. The elevator Mark was on was rising quickly to the penthouse. He looked over to see where the other one was. It was on the second floor, but had stopped. He cursed inaudibly.
Mark reached the penthouse, and ran off of the elevator. There were two heavy looking doors right across from him. Those were the ones he wanted. He raced forward, and snatched them open to find a single set of stairs going up. Using all of his agility, he darted up the stairs and snapped the doors open at the top. He found himself alone on the roof, and he walked solemnly to the edge. This was going to be it he thought, as he approached the edge of the building. There would be no reviving him from a fall to the street hundreds of feet below.
Suddenly, there appeared in front of him the final and most fitting form the spirit had taken. It was him at five-years-old. He expected the image to have a tantrum right then and there, but the only thing it did was cry. He decided to have a little fun in his last living minute. “Little boy, what’s the matter?”
“You know what’s wrong!” the image cried flagrantly.
“I don’t, honestly. Tell me why you’re crying.”
“We’re going to lose again, unless you quit. Quitting is the only way out.”
“Who’s that you’re talking to, Mark?” Doctor Aikman asked Mark just firmly enough to be heard from the doorway.
“You can’t see him, can you?” Mark asked in response.
“Mark, there’s nobody up here except you and me.”
Tina, Carter and Monroe then burst through the door, and Tina screamed, “No, babe. You don’t gotta do this. Tompkins is going to be okay. Just a concussion, a few broken ribs and a busted nose, but he’s gonna be okay. You didn’t kill him, I promise!”
“That’s not it, babe. I can’t get rid of it.”
“Get rid of what?” Tina asked. Her husband was clearly at the end of his rope, and she would have to be cautious with both her words and tone.
“Remember the image that I saw that night after my first fight. I have seen it three times tonight. It won’t leave me alone.”
Doctor Aikman had been listening to the conversation and he finally spoke, “Mark, I should have warned you before, even before the operation, that there was a risk of hallucinations. Can I ask you something?”
Mark nodded his head.
“What is it that you’re seeing?”
Mark reluctantly replied, “I have been seeing myself at certain points in my life in the past. They’ve been mocking me.”
“Well now, we’ve reached an impasse, haven’t we? Aikman said. “I see only two options. One, you can go on as you are and attempt to ignore them, hoping they’ll go away; or two, you can have the implant removed. I know you know which one I hope you opt for, but it’s your decision, ultimately.”
By this time a bunch of reporters had found them, and were either already filming or were in the process of setting up their equipment. In addition, there were two helicopters circling the building, one was a police helicopter and the other belonged to a local news channel.
Katie had been watching the fight from the hotel room, and with distinctive calmness walked to her daughter’s side. “I told you this was a bad idea, didn’t I?” she said to Mark. “I know what’s going on, Mark. Do you wanna know what I think is going on?” Without waiting she began, “I think the enemy is attacking you. I think he knows you don’t want to give all this up, but at the same time, he’s tormenting you in the hopes that you’ll want to give it up, for sanity’s sake, but you’ll end up hating God for it.”
“Where did his mother by marriage come from?” Satan was scathing mad. “Who was in charge of keeping her away?”
The demons were all denying responsibility and pointing their fingers at the next.
“Well, that was a classic blunder. Now we might lose this one to Him,” Satan growled.
“Wait master, we still might be able to get him to kill himself,” one demon pondered. “A jump from that high, there’s no way they would be able to bring him back.”
“You’d better get to work.”
“It’s too late now, Lucifer. I know his every thought before he has it. He will surely not jump to his death, and he is going to have the implant taken out of his brain,” the booming voice of the Lord thundered down from heaven.”
“Okay, but he will still curse your name when he must go back to his disabled state. Yes, his heart will be so filled with bitterness and resentment, that…”
“Oh, prince of darkness, you are such a fool. Don’t you know that now that he knows that it was you who created this, he will by no means be angry with me, but will end up praising me even more?”
“No! There is no way such a heart filled with anger could be forced to give back what I have given him and not be furious with you. I know him! I know him! I have put him through so much: pain, terror, frustration, confusion. There is no way he can continue to worship you! He must be so enraged at you. His anger was so powerful, such a destructive force. I know him!”
“Apparently, you don’t. You see Satan; only one of my true children would realize that something like this is a test, that I only allowed this to happen to prove their faith in me. And you were such a fool to think that showing yourself through these visions was going to destroy him. He knew it was you all along. Now, it’s your turn to be the quitter!”
“So, you’ll take it out, just like that?” Mark asked Aikman.
“If that is what you really want,” Aikman sincerely replied.
The reporters gathered on the rooftop were all confused. They had no clue what “it” was.
Aikman approached Mark and whispered to him, “Mark, nobody knows exactly what we’re talking about. If you wanna keep your money from this fight, I suggest that we say nothing more about it.”
“No, I’ve gotta be honest. I would never willingly tell such a lie, and then keep something that doesn’t belong to me. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
“We can take it out next week then,” Aikman promised.
“Next week is good. I’ve got a promise that I need to keep.”
Epilogue
The first hole at The Squire’s Country Club is a 368 yard par 4. Jack and Mark were taking their warm up swings on the tee. “Age before beauty,” Mark said and made the motion to his father to hit his tee shot. Jack stepped up and placed his tee in the ground and balanced his ball on it. He took a couple more swings to stay loose, addressed the ball, and proceeded to hit a 248 yard drive into the thick grass off of the right side of the fairway.
“Not bad, not bad for an older fella,” Mark jested.
Then Mark went through the same routine that Jack just had, except that he had a five wood instead of a driver. He addressed the ball and took a long, easy swing that accelerated exponentially. The ball took off into the early morning mist. “I don’t know, Mark, from what I could see it looked pretty straight.” They rode the golf cart up the fairway and found Jack’s ball. He then hit his second shot with a six iron to about ten feet short of the cup. Up at the green, the job of looking for Mark’s ball began. They looked right, they looked left, and they looked long. It was nowhere to be found. Jack decided to putt out, and when he got to the cup to remove the flag, he yelled with relative composure, “Mark, here’s your ball my boy.” Mark had double eagled the par 4 with a hole in one.
While they were walking off the green, Jack asked Mark, “So, have you decided what you’re going to do with the money? I mean, a half a million is more than enough to live on, if you make some wise investments.”
“I’m not sure yet. I still feel like I got it unfairly, even though it was the loser’s share. One thing I’m gonna do for sure is pay off the mortgage on your house.”
“You don’t have to do that. Your mom and I aren’t planning on living much longer anyway.”
“I want to. I lived there for twenty-eight years. The least I can do is take care of what’s left on the house for you.”
On the second tee Mark said, “You know, this is going to be the last round we ever play together.”
“How do you feel about that,” Jack asked calmly.
“Considering that I thought I was never going to get the chance again, I must say that I am pretty thankful.”
“Really, what are you so thankful for?”
“We never got a chance to play a ‘last round’ did we?” I’m just grateful for the opportunity
to play the game one more time with the person I enjoyed playing it with the most.”
“And you’re not the least upset about having to go back to not being able to play it?”
“Not really, dad. God gave me four months of respite from the illness, and whether or not the
devil meant it for bad; the Lord worked it out for good. I mean, God gave me the choice between physical wellness and emotional health. And you know what? In my heart I believe that is exactly what he did after the poisoning too, except the alternative to the physical disability at that time was eternity in hell.”
“So you’ve found a way to be appreciative. That’s good.”
“You still don’t get it, do you? I’ve not just found a way to be grateful. God made a way so
that I can be grateful. I didn’t find a way to do anything.”
“And that is the God you believe in?”
“That it is. He is the God who gives and takes away. There is no questioning him, no
doubting him, and no being bitter at him.”
“I must say, I wish I had faith like you. I wish the God I believed in could take something like my life from me, and I could end up thanking him. Maybe I should think about trying out your God on for size.”
“One size fits all,” Mark responded to Jack’s second statement first. “He didn’t take my life, dad. He made me appreciate what my life really means. And my God and your God are the same. The only difference is how we see Him, not how he sees us. Can I ask you something, dad? Mark said and without waiting continued. “Did you blame God for what happened to me?”
Jack thought for a moment. “For a while, I did. Not so much for your physical problem, but for the psychological problems before. I know that might sound strange, ‘cuz it was the illness in your mind that caused the damage to your brain. But if you hadn’t been so dang sick before, then none of this would have happened.”
“But you don’t blame him anymore?”
“No, how do I blame a God who obviously knows what he is doing? Jack replied, “Even when it doesn’t seem to make any sense at all.”
“He does know what he’s doing, doesn’t he?”
There was a long pause before Mark realized that it was his honor.
“So you’re going to have the chip taken out next week…?”
“Thursday.”
As the round was coming to an end, father and son walked off the eighteenth green together. Mark extended his hand for his dad to shake. Jack took his hand and pulled him into a warm embrace, and whispered in his ear, “Don’t quit ever again.” Looking over his father’s shoulder, he saw a young man of maybe twelve years carrying his golf bag a few yards behind an older man. The boy resembled a much younger Mark in every way right down to the shoes he was wearing. It reminded Mark of a lot of good Saturdays spent with his father. The boy looked at Mark and gave him a nod of his head and Mark winked at him.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.