I picture my father in his prime as Dustin Hoffman in All The President’s Men; smoking in elevators, busting into politicians offices in corduroy bell-bottoms, coercing pretty young women into giving him leads.
Only, he was tall and handsome like Robert Redford.
Only, he believed Watergate was the end of journalism he wanted to be apart of, the end of turning a blind-eye.
He stopped working undercover with criminals, exposing sex scandals, interviewing off the record. He became editor of the sports page and travelled with the Toronto Blue Jays, almost year round. He refused to wear anything but jeans, sweatshirts and ball caps.
He told me that he just had to get out. He didn’t have the taste for the jugular he used to.
I know the truth. That was the year he quit drinking.
That was the year he lost his nerve.
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