An hour later, there was violent pounding at my front door. It was Harry Caldwell, red-faced and vibrating with anger, with a sullen Trent standing behind him.
"You lay hands on my son, Kessler?" Harry screamed. "He said you grabbed him and threw him to the ground!"
"Harry, your son grabbed my shirt. I stepped back and he lost his balance," I said calmly. "Check your security cameras."
Harry jabbed a thick finger at my chest. "Trent is a champion fighter. He doesn't trip. You listen to me, you pathetic paper-pusher: you ever disrespect my kid again, I'll sue you into the dirt, and then I'll let him break your jaw."
They stormed off. In Trent's mind, he had rationalized that I used a "cheap trick" or got lucky. The escalation protocol in my brain flashed red. A confrontation was no longer a possibility; it was an inevitability.