Last Saturday, at an Amateur Athletic Union basketball tournament in Miami, I found myself doing something no mother should have to do: defending my child against an adult. My son is 11 years old. In the span of six months, he shot up from 4 feet, 11 inches to 5 feet, 6 inches. But he is still very much a child — curious, playful, learning how to regulate his emotions, and growing into himself one awkward inch at a time. The world, however, no longer seems interested in seeing him that way.