On Saturday night, I took my book and my iPad to the Middle School gym. I was in an anti-social mood, so I sat in the upper most seat in the bleachers as I watched Jonah's basketball game. I waved at the gaggle of moms down below, but I didn't bother to go over to engage in the niceties.

Jonah isn't a bad soccer player, but on the basketball court, he's all enthusiasm and no technique. He runs around the court, wildly waving his hands to block the opponent's shots, but if the ball accidentally ends up in his hands, he looks horrified. He passes it off as frantically as he can. He's the Ed Grimley of the basketball court. Sorry, Jonah, but genetics are a bitch.

This is a recreation basketball league, so it's not that competitive. All of the other kids on his team are equally uncoordinated, except for one.

The one sporty kid had a couple of his fellow football jock buddies in the stands watching him. After each quarter, the three sporty boys grabbed three of the free balls and took shots together at the center hoop. The eleven other kids on the team shared one ball and took shots in the corner.

The sporty kids didn't acknowledge the presence of the other kids on the court, kids that they had known since Kindergarten. The other boys were invisible. The sporty kids made their shots. Swish. And loudly congratulated each other. While the other boys looked longingly at the balls that they needed, they were too afraid to ask for them back. It was naked power.

These boys were top of the heap, because they were all on the football team. They weren't especially good looking or smart or charming or well dressed, but they did have several inches on the other boys. Their moms had held them back a year to give them an edge in sports. They had formed a tight, exclusionary group with boundless confidence. They were eleven-year old frat boys, and I wanted to hit them.