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propelled him to six-foot one-inch tall.
Suddenly, he lost his baby fat and blossomed into a terrific high
school athlete. In his sophomore year, he earned a spot on the
school’s varsity squad. His mom demanded that he never permit his
sport to get in the way of his college goals. When he was a high
school junior, a few Midwestern colleges expressed interest. His
height ultimately topped out at 6 foot 3 inches. One college coach
asked to meet Marcus’ mother after a basketball game. These coveted
home visits gave the coaches a chance to sell the family on the
college’s merits and reassure them that they would meet the
player’s off-court needs. This was a promising time, and the Imaris
enthusiastically anticipated using basketball to fulfill Marcus’
educational destiny. The coach was not so concerned that his
inner-city education was stereotypically sub-par. He promised
tutors, study halls, and personal curriculum counseling to ensure
Marcus’ collegiate success.
    Disaster struck in his senior year when an
out-of-control opponent crashed into Marcus tearing the ligaments
and cartilage in one of his knees. At the time, the repair of an
ACL meant the surgeon ripped open the knee and rebuilt it on a best
effort basis. The operation was problematic for wealthy people
using the finest doctors. For patrons of the Robert Taylor Clinic,
the quality of care and the results were predicatively much worse.
Arthroscopic surgery was on the drawing board, but not approved.
Rehabilitation involved hard work and a low chance of recovering
complete range of movement. After his surgery, the limping Marcus
missed the rest of the season. More importantly, he could not
regain his quickness and his college scholarship opportunities
evaporated.
    Graduating from high school was an anti-climatic
event for Marcus and his mom. Overwhelmed with the disappointment
of losing his “ticket” to college, he made plans to enroll in
Burnham Junior College. He could live with his mom to save money
and perhaps play for Burnham’s team. This was like trying to make
lemonade out of a lemon. His mom was able to get Marcus a kitchen
helper job at one of her housecleaning clients’ restaurant. He
spent all summer working the dinner shift for low wages to save
money for school. During the daytime, he was in the park trying to
get his basketball legs back. He worked hard at both.
    The junior college coach knew he was enrolling and
invited him to walk-on tryouts. Marcus made the team, but he was
definitely slower than the other guards were and not big enough to
play forward. Six-foot-three players needed to be quick, even on
the junior college circuit. Academically, he struggled. Without the
bright lights and advantages of a Division I school, he was on his
own without tutors and academic advisors. Despite his advanced raw
intellectual capacity and above-average IQ, his weak primary school
education had taken its toll. It was hard to keep up with the
better-prepared students in his classes, and he had become a
practice player landing ninth on the team’s depth chart. Marcus was
put in games only after the outcomes had been determined, otherwise
known as “garbage time”. He dreaded the day he had to tell his mom
that their dream had ended. He dropped out of junior college and
began looking for a job.
    ***
    He walked around the tall buildings in Chicago
trying to secure employment. With his high school certificate in
hand, he was out of place in the bustling downtown Chicago area. He
was imposing, but soft spoken. The Board of Trade was located at
the base of LaSalle Street, in the heart of Chicago’s financial
district. He wandered in to use the bathroom and followed the rope
lines to the guard station. Before he could ask about public
washrooms, he noticed a posting entitled, “Now Hiring”. The list
below had several job descriptions. He did not know what most of
these positions meant, but when the guard behind the desk offered
to help him, Marcus