"You're mine, bitch."

"By sixth grade it was clear that John wasn't swallowing his best lines at school either. At one point he came up to bat at a game watched by school administrators. He looked at the pitcher. 'You're mine, bitch,' he said. Because of incidents like this, I was told that my son had a bad attitude."

--Benjamin H. Cheever, "The Father Lode", Runner's World magazine, March 2010

This anecdote in Runner's World struck a chord with me immediately upon reading it. In part because it engendered a "first instinct" response, followed by a more thoughtful response, looking at it from the vantage of a parent. It struck me enough that I posted it as my Facebook status, in the guise of a "How would you respond as a parent?" game.

It continued to resonate as I pondered it further, as I realized it hits on a lot of subjects that speak to the heart of who I am as a person: competitiveness, respect...and macho swagger. ;-) And yes, I am going to tackle this subject from a male-dominated perspective, because that is where I live. That is not to say, however, that this is a club that is closed to women.

So first, competitiveness. What a double-edged word in our society. Some see it as the best of who we are, some the worst. In truth, it can be both. But I love it, in ways that can be hard to articulate. Men are drawn to sports for a reason. It speaks to some warrior instinct that resides somewhere within us. For me, it is a "socially acceptable" way to channel primal drives that might otherwise erupt in polite company. I hope most would agree that in "real life", I am a kind, caring, compassionate, pleasant sort of guy. This is what I strive for, at least. But if I succeed in this, it is in part because I have an outlet for the ruthless, vicious, take-no-prisoners, show-no-mercy bastard that also resides within. That outlet is competitive sports.

What a guilty pleasure it can be to step onto the race course or the tennis court (my two arenas) and change into a completely different person. And I do. Before the competition and after the competition, by competitors can be my best friends. But in the heat of the battle, they are my mortal enemy. For I now have one and only goal, and that is to win. And they are in my way. Those of you who have not seen me compete probably would not recognize me. Is that really nice, sweet Joe screaming, "You. Cannot. Miss. That. Shot!" at the top of his lungs? I curse my opponents under my breath. I throw things. I glare. Yes, I have broken at least one racquet. Hurt my hand pretty bad throwing punches at the fence once, too.

This is because I want to win. Now, not at any cost. I would not cheat, and I would not be cruel. But if skill and tenacity do not carry the day, then perhaps it is time to pull some gamesmanship, or psychological posturing, from the toolbox. You think that athletic competitions are all physical? Please. As Yogi Berra used to say, "90% of it is half mental". So we circle each other, and we poke each other with sticks, and throw body-checks, looking for weakness. Physical weakness, mental weakness, whatever, makes no difference. There are a million ways to do it.

And though it may sound silly or cruel, there is another layer to it. We are actually making each other better and stronger. If you knock me down, I have to figure out how to get back up. I also have to figure out how not to get knocked down again. We are like rocks banging against each other in a tumbler, except instead of coming out smoother, we come out sharper.

And yet another layer. The trash-talking athlete is the passionate athlete, as opposed to the apathetic one. Sports wouldn't mean what they do in our culture if it wasn't for the archetype of the competitor who "digs deep" and "gives his all". This is also the athlete who wants to win, whatever it takes. That is another one of the beautiful things about sports: the simplicity of the result. Either you win, or you don't. You can have all the excuses you want, but the result is what it is. And once the game is over, whether I am the vanquisher or the vanquished, we are friends again. I shake your hand, and clap you on the back, and tell you, "Great job!" And I mean it.

Admittedly, it can be a fine line between competitive fire and boorishness, even during the heat of battle. But that too is part of the fun. You are dancing on the edge, and you know it. Can you keep your balance? It tells something about you when you can, and it tells something about you when you can't. Did I cross the line during a state championship match, when I berated the spectators for cheering my opponent in the middle of a point? Maybe I did and maybe I didn't, but don't you understand? I was in a desperate position. I was losing! And maybe, if I could find something to get angry about, it would rile me up enough to win. (It didn't.)

And there are so many variables to factor in. Context: the difference between a Little League game and a sandlot game. Timing: the difference between throwing your racquet during a match, and refusing to shake my hand after a match. Degree: When is swagger confidence, and when is it arrogance? But it is all part of the dance.

But back to our original story. It probably doesn't surprise you to know that my first thought upon reading about the sixth-grader was along the lines of, "Rock on!" But then I caught myself. As a parent, what would I say if that were my child? Was that behavior appropriate? And you know, based on the information in the article, the answer is not so cut-and-dried. It says it was a game "watched by school administrators". Well, that could have been a sandlot game for all we know. And did he know the pitcher? Were they friends? If I was playing with my friends, not only might such a comment be appropriate, it would practically be required. Boys, in the end, truly will be boys.

But given the implied context, I probably would have done a little macho posturing of my own. After the game, I probably would have grabbed him by the scruff of the shirt, and said, "Listen. I don't ever want to hear you telling someone they're your 'bitch'. Any little punk can say that."

"Instead, you prove it."