They all just looked at him.

"That's the end of my advisory." He turned back toward Coach Bobby and me. "We now return you to our regularly scheduled brawl."

Coach Bobby looked at me. "This guy for real?"

But I was in the zone right now and it wasn't a good one. Rage was consuming me. That's a mistake when you fight. You need to slow things down, keep your pulse from racing, keep your adrenaline rush from paralyzing you.

Bobby looked at me and for the first time I saw doubt in his eyes. But now I remembered how he laughed, how he pointed to the wrong basket, what he'd said:

"Hey, kid, do that again!"

I took a deep breath.

Coach Bobby put up his fists like a boxer. I did likewise, though my stance was far less rigid. I kept my knees flexed, bounced a bit. Bobby was a very big guy and local-neighborhood tough and used to intimidating opponents. But he was out of his league.

A few quick facts about fighting. One, the cardinal rule: You never really know how it is going to go. Anyone can land a lucky blow. Overconfidence is always a mistake. But the truth was, Coach Bobby had virtually no chance. I don't say this to sound immodest or repetitive. Despite what the parents in those rickety stands want to believe with their private coaches and overly aggressive third-grade travel league schedules, athletes are mostly created in the womb. Yes, you need the hunger and the training and the practice, but the difference, the big difference, is natural ability.

Nature over nurture every time.

I had been gifted with ridiculously quick reflexes and hand-eye coordination. That's not bragging. It's like your hair color or your height or your hearing. It just is. And I'm not even talking here about the years of training I did to improve my body and to learn how to fight. But that's there too.