what she means:
The summer between Dylan’s sophomore and junior years was low-key. There was, however, one disturbing incident, and it involved Eric Harris.
Dylan hadn’t played soccer since kindergarten, but he decided to join the team Eric played for that summer, and they gave him a shot although he had no experience and few skills. We were pleased to hear he was joining the team, as soccer wouldn’t strain the arm he’d injured pitching. Plus, we admired his willingness to try a sport he hadn’t played in years.
Dylan wasn’t a great athlete—he was strong, but lacked agility and the coordination to manage his long, gangly limbs. He did not play soccer particularly well, but he attended practice faithfully. When the team made the playoffs, Tom and I came out to watch. Dylan played poorly, and the team lost.
Still sweaty, Eric and Dylan came over to where we were standing with the Harrises. Before we could congratulate them on a good effort, Eric began to scream. Spittle flying from his mouth, he lashed out at Dylan, ranting about his poor performance. Chattering parents and boys from both teams fell silent and stared.
Eric’s parents flanked him and guided him off the field as Tom, Dylan, and I drifted slowly, in stunned humiliation, toward our own car. I couldn’t hear what the Harrises were saying to Eric, but they appeared to be trying to settle him down. Dylan walked between Tom and me, silent and impassive.
I was shocked by the sudden inappropriateness of the display, and by the extremity of Eric’s rage. Dylan’s utter lack of affect alarmed me too; he had to be wounded, though he revealed nothing. My heart ached for him. I wanted to hug him, but he was fifteen years old and surrounded by his team. I couldn’t embarrass him further.
As soon as we got inside the car, though, I said, “Man! What a jerk! I can’t believe Eric!” As Tom started the car, Dylan stared out the window with a blank expression on his face. His calm in the face of Eric’s freak-out seemed unnatural, and I hoped he’d allow himself to acknowledge anger or humiliation as we drove away, but he did not.
I pressed him, wishing he’d blow off steam. “Didn’t it hurt your feelings, to have him act like that? I’d be incredibly upset if a friend treated me that way.” Dylan was still looking out the window, and his expression didn’t change when he answered me. "Nah. That’s just Eric.”