My mom’s expression remains staid, and as her hater continues to yell, pointing and gesturing toward me first, then Noah, my mom calmly opens the snap on her purse and reaches in, pulling out the thin, silver bottle of leftover party paint she had in her purse from when she and Linda met to make posters for the first game. Without a second of warning, my mom takes one step forward and sprays it at the Tiger logo embroidered on the center of the woman’s sweater, causing her to fall backward and scream. “Oh…shit!” I say,
