Coach Bobby did the predictable thing. He stepped in and threw a wild roundhouse. A roundhouse isn't an effective punch against a seasoned fighter. You learn quickly that when it counts, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You are better off throwing blows with that knowledge.

I slid a little to the right. Not a lot. Just enough so that I could deflect the blow with my left hand and stay close enough to counter. I stepped inside Bobby's exposed defense. Time had slowed down now. I could hit one of several soft targets.

I chose the throat.

I bent my right arm and smashed my forearm into the Adam's apple.

Coach Bobby made a squawking noise. The fight was over right there. I knew that. Or at least I should have. I should have stepped back and let him gasp to the ground.

But that mocking voice was still in my head…

"Hey, kid, do that again… The rest of the season he's a target… We have a chance at a cheap shot, we take it… Chicken!"

I should have let him fall. I should have asked him if he'd had enough and ended it that way. But the anger was out now. I couldn't harness it. I bent my left arm and began to spin full force counterclockwise. I planned on landing an elbow blow directly to the big man's face.

It would be, I realized as I spun, a devastating blow. The kind of blow that caves in the bones of a face. The kind of blow that leads to surgery and months of pain meds.

At the last second, I came just enough to my senses. I didn't stop, but I pulled back a little. Instead of landing square, my elbow careened across Bobby's nose. Blood spurted. There was a sound like someone had stepped on dried twigs.

Bobby fell hard to the ground.

"Bobby!"

It was Assistant Coach Pat. I turned toward him, put up my palms, and shouted, "Don't!"

But it was too late. Pat took a step forward, his fist cocked.