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escaped, but he was ahead again, and I knew I’d better go for it soon. We pushed, shoved, separated, tied up again, probing for weaknesses. Three times in a row, as soon as we tied up, I stepped back andas he moved toward me I dove for his legs. The fourth time, I made the move I’d been setting him up for. As soon as we tied up, instead of stepping back I flashed in close, forced my right arm under his left, dropped a little at the knee for leverage, drove my hip and thigh in tight, arched my back, and summoning every drop of strength I had, took a quick step to the side and heaved upwards, uttering a super-high-volume
‘Aaaarrraaagh!’
As I hoisted him into the air I rotated, and I brought him down, nailing his back to the mat—a
Supplé
, the best I had ever done, so smooth it was like warm honey poured from a jar, so that he went down just like the books said he would have to.
Wham!
The air burst from his lungs when we landed, so I easily slipped into a head-and-arm, shoving his bicep over his mouth and nose. The ref was there, down on the mat beside us, right where he was supposed to be. His hand came up, he checked quickly with the mat judge on one side and mat chairman on the other, slammed his hand on the mat and blew his whistle. I jumped to my feet as the crowd roared.
    The photographer from the
Star
had caught the Korean and me in the middle of the throw. I was proud of that picture. I looked at it almost every day. And I was looking at it when my mother shrieked from the kitchen, “He’s here! Stevie! He’s here! Hurry, so he doesn’t have to come in and wait!”
    As if she needed to remind me. She had told me a dozen times, “Make sure you’re ready so you can go right out and get in his car. I don’t want to talk to him. And I especially don’t want him hanging around in the house waiting for you.”
    I went to the window. Parked in our driveway beside Mom’s BMW was a white Volkswagen camper-van with maroon splotches all over it where somebody had been doing some body work. Now that the rock music wasn’t pounding into my room from the TV I could tell the van needed a new muffler. One wheel cover was missing, and the lens on the left rear light was patched with silver duct tape. Nice wheels, I thought.
    The rumble of the motor died and I heard somebody howling in Italian—opera music that got louder when the driver’s door opened and my old man swung down onto the driveway.
    At least I figured it was my old man. I hadn’t seen him in quite a few years. He was thin and wiry, not too tall, with curly black hair. He was wearing faded jeans and a wrinkled white T-shirt. He slammed the door of the van and stood there, thumbs in his belt, and looked up at the condo.
    I pulled back from the window, tripped over my athletic bag and fell onto the bed.
    “Stevie! Come on!”
    “All right! All right!” Man, was I tense.
    I snatched up my suitcase and athletic bag and went downstairs into the living room. Mom was sitting in the leather armchair, watching her favourite soap, the hour-and-a-half Sunday version where they catch you up on everything that happened—or didn’t happen—during the week. She was wearing wool slacks with a red silk blouse. She had her make-up on—she
always
had her make-up on—and her hair was carefully brushed.
    She got up and hugged me. “Bye, dear. Good luck at the tournament. Bring home a trophy.” She smiled.
    “Okay, Mom, I’ll try.”
    She walked me to the kitchen door, and as I struggled through with my luggage the phone rang. Mom grabbed the portable phone from the kitchen table.
    “Stevie, wait, it’s Hawk.” She held out the phone.
    “I don’t want to talk to him.”
    A look of disbelief crossed her face. “What? I said it’s Hawk. He wants to speak to you before you go.”
    “Tell him I’ve left.”
    “Stevie, what’s—”
    “I don’t want to get into it right now, okay? Let’s just say my so-called best friend and I have thrown in the sponge.