steel bars

In the plane, I talked to a neighbor by the window.
He is thin, cuddly, his name is Alexander, a violinist by profession. We came to Peter, Alexander was born and grew up there, and I lived for five years.
They remembered the oppressive nineties and Sasha told this story:

One winter, late in the evening, my dad and I were driving in the tram, he took me to the "musical", when I was eight years old. A few people, five people, ten people, for the whole car.
Suddenly, at the stop, a real bandit brigade, six people, for some reason I remembered the number. Angry, apparently something happened to them there, maybe they fled from the menta. In any case, these people do not travel in trams. All varied calibers - from two meters, to small, but in appearance real fighters. Broken nose and ears.
In general, by profession athletes, and by post bandits.
The clothes are so beautiful that the eye cannot answer: sports costumes, branded crosses, about chains in general, I am silent. What is the chain? Each of their love jackets was as expensive as our entire tram.
They spoke loudly, discussed something, and the passengers pressed into their chairs, did not turn their heads and with the effort of thought pulled the tram faster to their stop.
One of my brothers smoked.
Some grandfather from his place, without looking back, whispered, something like: "In the tram do not smoke."
The bandit turned to the frightened people and asked loudly:

Who? who? Who has pulled something now?! to

The answer is sad silence.
The brother continued:

If anyone wants to say something, take into account – for the words will have to answer. Ready to fight? present to me. No is? Sit quietly and stick to the window.
Naturally – the public completely silenced and pressed their heads in their shoulders, well that even the grandfather was not handed out, who was outraged.
And suddenly, my dad, my pious intellectual dad, one hundred and sixty centimeters tall and fifty kilos weighing, the technician of a confectionery factory, whispers to me, “Sachok, sit here, hold the violin.”
My desperate, forty-year-old dad, who had never fought in his life, stood up and, horrifyingly, went to the back of the pitch, where the bandits were rotting and smoking.
One hand he tightly pressed into his fist, and I could see his fingers trembling, and I almost died of fear for him.
Dad approached them and said loudly, trying to hide the trembling in his voice:

You cannot smoke in the tram. Please smoke the cigarettes!

There was an endless pause, the brigade was surprisingly studying my dad, his compressed fist, and finally one of them replied:

“No, you can’t, we’ve heard you.
Not every day you meet a man with a steel ball.

The smokers immediately flew into the fortress.
I didn’t sit there, I ran with my suitcase and stood up for my dad. A bandit grabbed my head and said:
You can’t even imagine what a cool father you have, you can be proud of them.

The tram stopped at the intersection, the brigade opened the doors and landed on the street.
My dad and I went further and I tried all the way to find out what he had for such "steel balls", and why do they need them? And Daddy smiled stupidly and failed to get away from the topic.