Excerpt from Autobiography of a Recovering Skinhead
"Cold sober, my dad can read the trail of another fighter's hooks and jabs as well as any Boy Scout can read a map. Of course, it had been a lot of years since my dad had really been sober. Still, I knew he wasn't going to buy, "It happened in hockey."
"John shoved me around a little," I admitted on my way in the door.
My dad eyed me suspiciously.
"It was nothing," I lied.
If I'd confessed the truth at that moment, my dad might have gone after John. I like to think he would have, if only I'd told him, but I didn't.
How in the he** could I tell my dad the truth? That every precious afternoon he'd ever let me have with him at the bar had been a total waste of his time? That I hadn't put even one of his lessons into practice to save my own a**? That I hadn't looked to see where somebody might be hiding? That I'd turned tail and run like a f***ing p***y? That I'd let John corner me? That I'd let John attack me with my own g*****n lamp? How in the f*** could I tell a 68th and Buist boy that his only son had let himself be a prisoner of war for nearly three years and a punching bag for two?
He took me down to the bar with him. Cha-Cha, Fat Mike, and the other guys sensed something was up; they left us alone in a corner booth. I sipped a Coke in silence while my dad worked his way to the bottom of a pitcher.
"So, youse wanna talk about it?" he finally asked me.
"No," I pouted.
"Okay." He started to get up from the booth.
"I can't believe she f***ing kicked me out instead of him."
I didn't expect much of a response from my dad, maybe not even any response at all. What could he say? He didn't know what John had really been doing to me. He didn't know John. He**, he barely even knew my mom. So I wasn't expecting him to give me some mind-blowing insight.
But he did.
"Son," he slurred. "She chose d**k over you.""
- Chapter Two, The Neo-Phyte