"Should I stick around? Just in case?"

"No."

Win gave a curt nod and left. I still had my gaze locked on that Kasselton coach. I rose and started down the rickety stands. My footsteps fell like thunder. The coach started for the door. I followed. He headed into the bathroom grinning like the idiot he undoubtedly was. I waited for him by the door.

When he emerged, I said, "Classy."

The words "Coach Bobby" were sewn in script onto his shirt. He stopped and stared at me. "Excuse me?"

"Encouraging a ten-year-old to shoot at the wrong basket," I said. "And that hilarious line about 'Hey, kid, do it again' after you help humiliate him. You're a class act, Coach Bobby."

The coach's eyes narrowed. Up close he was big and broad and had thick forearms and large knuckles and a Neanderthal brow. I knew the type. We all do.

"Part of the game, pal."

"Mocking a ten-year-old is part of the game?"

"Getting in his head. Forcing your opponent to make a mistake."

I said nothing. He sized me up and decided that, yeah, he could take me. Big guys like Coach Bobby are sure they can take pretty much anyone. I just stared at him.

"You got a problem?" he said.

"These are ten-year-old kids."

"Right, sure, kids. What are you-one of those namby-pamby, touchy-feely daddies who thinks everyone should be equal on the court? No one should get their feelings hurt, no one should win or lose… hey, maybe we shouldn't even keep score, right?"

The Kasselton assistant coach came over. He had on a matching shirt that read "Assistant Coach Pat." "Bobby? Second half's about to start."

I took a step closer. "Just knock it off."

Coach Bobby gave me the predictable smirk and reply. "Or what?"

"He's a sensitive boy."

"Boo hoo. If he's that sensitive, maybe he shouldn't play."

"And maybe you shouldn't coach."

Assistant Coach Pat stepped forward then. He looked at me, and that knowing smile I was all too familiar with spread across his face. "Well, well, well."