The first time I came home with a black eye, I thought my dad would give me another one. Instead, he gently pressed his cold beer against my cheek. It stung, but I smiled. He didn't care if I'd won or lost. Fighting for the right reason is the closest thing to God, he said. Once the swelling and bruise disappeared, so did our talks.
The real estate broker moved to Boston. A bloody nose, a chipped tooth. Sometimes, someone would punch me so hard I'd see a flash of light. The Boston hockey league was tough. It was never God like, but who cares? I still have a dad.
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