The principal looked at me after six varsity wrestlers put my son in the intensive care unit and said, “Your boy probably provoked them. What do you expect me to do, call the Marines?” I smiled and walked out. Five days later, their coach was gone, all six boys were falling apart, and their fathers were on my porch at dusk pretending they still had control.
The principal asked me, in a voice polished by twenty years of school-board meetings and church-lunch diplomacy, whether I expected her to call the Marines. By the time she said it, my son was lying in intensive care with a punctured lung, four fractured ribs, and a chest tube rising out of his side…
