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In the stands, watching as always in a red Adidas sweatsuit unzipped to reveal networking his tan, my father made a show of leaving in disgust when Nick Bell went up 4-1 in the second set. He looked like a noise-sensitive moviegoer switching rows, shuffling past indrawn knees and muttering loudly, something about the endless final networking set of the 1981 McEnroe-Borg final. ABOUT 8 AND A HALF YEARS AGO, LESS networking 27 MINUTES. Gerrroonnnimoo again. The outskirts of my field of vision went black, as if telescoping Scott’s face through a rolled tube of dusky paper. My fist surged out, cold-cocking him, fracturing his jaw in two places. 4 EVENINGS AGO. My wife surprised me by arranging for a babysitter and meeting me for dinner in the city. We ate at Raoul’s, where I’d taken her for our first anniversary. As we contentedly sipped port, tiny sparks suddenly crackled from a match tip as the waiter relit our candle and vanished.
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