The dad was big. Big in every sense, like the way the back of his head collided with his neck like a thick rumpled rug. His scalp dotted in blond stumps, belying various attempts at regrowth. He had shaved it once—he often told me—for the army, but gave no further details. The dad wore failure proudly and defiantly, and had a constant angle in his eyes that said well why the hell not?
He was the colour red. A giant letter T. The hockey jersey he wore everywhere he went, from home, to the sports store where he worked, to dinners and parties. He liked to belly laugh and slap backs—good manly pursuits such as these—and when he did, those huge fingers bunched up far too tight and you felt the full dead power of a deli counter of meat he held in each fist.