Basketball: When good things go bad.

Our Boys.  The Valiant Runners Up.
Rear:  Alec (Coach) Ollie, Max, AJ, Gus (Coach), Robbie, Harvey
Front:  Caleb, Milo, Jimmy

At the end of the game you could've been excused for thinking there'd been a stabbing  on the court.  The air was so thick you could've cut it.  One of ours and one of theirs had, in the dying seconds, lunged at the ball and collided heavily knocking one another sprawling.  A mother of the other had sprinted onto the court and awkwardly half dragged, half carried the possibly injured, but obviously distressed child off the court, while our lad tried to collect himself while the final siren sounded.  There were poisonous recriminative glances coming from the collected other, directed at our boy.  He'd done it on purpose!  It was clear.  He's a thug.  A bully.  A beast.  

Our brute's mother made her way over and wiped the tears away from his face and offered a warm, comforting hug.  He'd played his heart out.  We'd lost the grand final and he'd been hurt in the dying seconds.  And for his effort those grown ups in the bleachers were collectively shooting him filthy looks en masse while he stood and nursed his aching shoulder.  Sad face.

What we who were observing didn't know at the time was that a giant man-mountain of a man – probably 110kg of muscle (and no sense to speak of) – the father of the other who had collided with our sweet eight year old monster, had approached our boy and threatened that if he ever ran into his son again, he would ensure he'd never again played basketball.

Aha.  Yep.  Because that's what grown ups say to kids at school sporting events.  A huge ginormous man of mega bouncer proportions to a grade two kid.

I can't even believe it.  I don't know what to say.