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earn a living, though I later learned you take plenty of abuse in that profession. A few gangly teenagers gathered around when I really started moving the bag. "The secret's in the hips," I explained. I stepped back to rest and felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Troy. "I'm sorry," he said, "I thought you were Mike Tyson." "An understandable mistake," I said as I struggled to control my breathing. "We look exactly alike, except he's black and doesn't have a big fucking streak of white hair sticking out of his head." My hair is straight and black, but I've always had a small tuft of white just above my right temple. It's a genetic fluke known as mosaicism. Some people call it a witch's stripe. I'm told it can be indicative of something called Waardenburg's syndrome, but in my case it's just a fluke. "You look good," he said. We gave each other a bear hug. "Ive been running." "What do you weigh?" "According to your scale, about two-fourteen." "That scale's a piece of crap," he joked. "The owner's too cheap to replace it." "How about you?" "Two-nineteen," he said. "You're a stick figure," I said, "you ought to be in the NBA." "Yeah, I might not be able to slam dunk, but when I foul you, you'll damn well know you've been fouled." We were poking fun at our genetic makeup. The men in our family are short and pow- erfully built-thick bones and limbs. At five-ten, I'm the tallest living Keane. We took turns on the heavy bag, then laced up the gloves and did some light sparring in the ring at the back of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall woman enter the room. She had dark hair and a bright future in toothpaste commercials. For a