I was sitting in the grass some 200 yards away watching a youth-soccer game with my 2-year-old daughter. The shove wasn’t one of those young, testosterone-type things adults, inexplicably, excuse in young males. It was a bracing, spirited, pro-hockey shot from behind. I could see Jack was OK. Fiercely, then, I restrained myself from charging onto the field.

It wasn’t easy. I looked like a racehorse with some sort of rare neurological problem–sweating, blinking, squinting, twitching and snorting out my nostrils. But there are times all through our children’s lives when we shouldn’t protect them. When we should back off, allow them to find their way through what is, unfortunately, a bully-ridden life. Bullies are everywhere–in school, sports, politics–and better that our children learn some survival techniques before, say, they’re all grown up and have to face–gulp–an irate homeowner’s association.

Jack, so far, has been widely categorized as “shy.” In reference to young boys, of course, this can sometimes mean, simply, “shy.” Or it can mean “nice and polite.” Then again, in some circles, nice, polite little boys are considered “sensitive,” which is not a compliment. Nonetheless, I’m mindful of this shy factor. I’m not going to rush to his rescue. I held my ground. Jack looked over at me from his place in the dirt. He was crying. I pointed at myself, then at him, a silent dialogue he correctly understood as my desire to swoop in and fix things. He shook his head no. I pointed to myself, again, and then at the bully. Can I at least go get that guy? I asked. He shook his head slowly–no, bless his heart–and quietly got to his feet.

That was exactly when The Bully slammed a soccer ball into the back of his head. “Never mess with a mama bear,” a friend had told me years ago. He was referring to the fact that, in all of nature, there is probably no force more lethal, more compelling, than a mama whose offspring are in real or perceived danger. I was on my feet.

“Sweetie–are you OK?” I asked my son.

“Yes,” he said, with tears.

“Did you use words?”

“Yes.”

“Which words? Did you say, ‘I don’t like pushing! Don’t push me!’ "

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He said he’d hit me again and knock my eyeballs out of my head.”

“Really,” I said, as the collective force of motherhood throughout the animal kingdom, since the beginning of time, rose within me. “Do you think it would be OK now if Mommy has a little chat with him?”

He nodded consent.

Perhaps, as so many parenting experts would have it, I should have asked The Bully how he was feeling. Or inquired about his home life, or asked him what he’d accomplished by pushing and hitting. Perhaps I should have hugged him, empathized with his boundary issues, asked him if he’d realized that he’d done a bad thing, if he’d realized that he’d hurt someone.

But I’d watched this young thug evade adult reprimands all morning. I’d watched him engage in inappropriate and aggressive behavior. I’d observed something beyond even the absurd “boys will be boys” loophole.

Sometimes a bully is just a bully.

“Excuse me,” I said, in a tone laced with grown-up malice, as I glided into his space and lowered my face evenly with his. “See that kid over there? The one who is smaller than you are?”

I had his attention.

“Don’t push him. I want to be very clear. Because here’s the thing: if you ever push him again”–and here I paused, smiled dementedly, then hissed through my gritted teeth in a punctuated, completely psychotic fashion–“if you ever push him again I’ll be back here and in your face so fast you won’t know which way to look.”

I have absolutely no idea what it meant. But it was powerful.

Was this responsible adult behavior? No. Did I help The Bully understand his motives and develop into a fine human being? Unlikely.

I winked at Jack as I sauntered back to the sidelines, and just a small flicker of a smile passed, ever so briefly, over my son’s face.