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He’s not the guy I thought he was. Goodbye, Mom.”
    “But what should I say to him?”
    “No message.”
    The door closed behind me as I walked out to meet my old man.
REPLAY
    He would never admit it, but I knew Hawk had gotten into weight training and athletics for the same reason I did: he was trying to make up for his size. I was skinny and awkward; he was short. But unlike me, Hawk was a natural athlete. He could throw a football through the centre of the tire hanging from the maple in his yard with ninety per cent accuracy, and he caught even better than he threw. Guys on a baseball team feared him because when he fielded the ball from short he fired it so hard he practically knocked the first base man on his butt. No matter what sport it was, he seemed to have an instinct for the game.
    “The only reason I don’t play basketball,” he once said, “is because of my ass.”
    I laughed. “What’s your ass got to do with it?”
    “Too close to the ground.”
    In wrestling, my height was a bit of a disadvantage because it slowed me down, but in spite of that it was the only sport where Hawk didn’t leave me behind in a cloud of dust. We were in different weight classes, but sometimes practised together, and early on I discovered the real secret of his athletic success.
    There was something in him, some kind of non-physical electric power, that was impossible to describe. It was as if he had a bottomless pool of anger, and when he wrestled he drew from it, the way a steel rod draws lightning from the centre of a storm.
    Before a match he’d pace back and forth on the mat, so psyched he seemed to radiate a fierce energy that scared the hell out of most of his opponents before they walked into the circle. And when the match was on he moved in a series of explosions. He hardly ever threw a guy, but he racked up points relentlessly.
    One time in grade nine I wrestled him in an open match. It was the only time he beat me. At the end of the match I told him, “You fight like an animal.”
    He laughed, and the next day at practice he sported a bright yellow T-shirt with GO ANIMAL across the front. From that day on, whenever the guys on our team wanted to encourage each other they’d yell, “Go animal!”
    But I often wondered what was the source of that ferocious anger.

ELEVEN
    T HE OLD MAN WAS STANDING in the driveway by the camper-van, cracking his knuckles. When he saw me coming he stepped forward and held out his hand. It shook a little.
    “Hi, Steve,” he said. “How’ve you been?”
    “Okay, I guess.” I put down my bags and we shook hands. His grip was firm, his hands rough.
    He looked me up and down. “You sure have grown!”
    I could see myself in his face—the green eyes, the little bump on the bridge of the nose. I had inherited his black hair, but not the natural curl. He was thin, like I used to be, but I was taller than him now, and working with weights had made me heavier.
    “Well,” he said after a moment. “Might as well get going. You can put your stuff in here.” He slid open the door at the side of the van.
    I stashed my bags inside and he rolled the door shut. I pulled myself up into the front seat and caught the music full blast. I could never understand why people listen to opera. All the singers sound mad at each other and they’re all trying to sing at once.
    The old man hauled himself into the drivers seat, lowered the volume a little and turned the key. Therumble of the motor echoed all over the street as we pulled out of the driveway and lumbered up 23rd Street. I hoped none of my friends were around to see me travelling in a beat-up camper that looked like it had a permanent case of acne.
    The inside of the van was messy and smelled of tobacco smoke. There were papers and matchbook covers all over the floor, along with a couple of empty beer cans. On a pull-out dashboard ashtray two pipes balanced dangerously. I turned to check out the back. There was a small fridge, a sink