It might have started with the hit. Some kid on the other team hit his son a little high and a little late and with a little elbow. The father looked to the refs, the zebras in their black-and-white-striped shirts, but there was no hand in the air, no signal at all that a penalty would be called. His son was on the ice for a second before he got up, skated to the bench. From the stands the father yelled, “What game are you watching, ref?” This was common. The kids were only eleven or twelve, but people took it seriously. Instead of ending it there, though, he stood up, shouted again. People looked at him. Some chuckled: Parents these days. Then he started advancing down the bleachers until he was at the glass, banging on it, shouting at the official, “You’re a stupid piece of shit, zebra! You’re a stupid piece of zebra shit!” The father made his way toward the door to the ice, the respected but easily broken barrier between fans and players.