Are those wooden lacrosse sticks?

French and I took in a game of lacrosse recently. His son's select team was playing in Cornwall versus a team from the Mohawk reserve.

The game went well. Lil'French scored three goals in the first half. He is one fast n'feisty son of a bitch. As the Ottawa team scored the "chippiness" increased. The Mohawks were adept at these little flicking slashes across the wrists, but lil'French kept scoring.

I thought a fight'd break out, but it didn't - just more slashing and crashing. After half the Mohawk team came out, and they looked different. French said: "Are those wooden lacrosse sticks?" They were. The Cornwall boys started to lay in the lumber and some crushing body checks. They were no longer trying to win. They were trying to exact some physical punishment. Near the end of the game a full out fight ensued. Helmets and sticks flew.

French surged forward, but the ref put a stop to it...briefly. The fight resumed moments later in the parking lot. French and I were trying to extract lil'French. Since he had scored so many goals; everyone wanted a piece of him.

I was holding this one guy and French was about to deck him - he uncocked his fist - and said: "Dean?...holy shit...Mean Dean?" The guy I was holding said: "French?" They shook hands and started laughing. In the midst of this crazy brawl French and Mean Dean were introducing their kids. Mean Dean's boy and lil'French had been the boys that started the whole mess.

French said: "Remember that time you punched that guy in the truck?"

Dean: "I remember.'

They both stood there grinning. The brawl carried on without us.