It might have kept going on like that for 10 more minutes had another reporter not said, "OK you two, let's cool it." I was so mad at that point that my temples were pounding, mostly because F.J., who has probably scared a couple college interns with his self-important act, thought he was going to cow me into apologizing. Later in the evening, when I went to retrieve my backpack, which was still sitting smack dab in F.J.'s territory, he pointed to a piece of paper on which he'd written, "[his name] from the [newspaper he works for] is sitting HERE," smacked it down on the table with his palm and glared at me. For an instant afterward, probably because I was at a baseball game, my mind went back to all the sandlot showdowns of my youth, and I thought that the best course of action would be to flip F.J.'s hat off his head. I came to my senses quickly though, realizing that to do so would mean one of two things, that I'd either become the bully that F.J. was attempting to be earlier, or he'd take the bait and we'd be brawling, in the press box, at Ripken Stadium, where I spend a good part of my summer, during the most important high school baseball game of the year, with an audience of a half dozen other journalists. I smiled and went back to my seat, still agitated, but happy that I'd let it slide off my back.