Intensity, Part II: Ways to deal with it

Last post, I discussed the treacherous waters of intensity. Dabbling in intensity can, of course, be fruitful: the more intense one is in a certain activity, the more chance for them to develop skills therein. However, how does one deal with intensity when one doesn't want to embrace it fully? I believe that one afternoon/evening two days ago could provide some insight.
The boys and I were enjoying a boys' night (when my wife works late, and we watch movies and eat chinese food in front of the TV). The movie was over, but it wasn't quite bed-time. The boys (and I am referring to all three of us) decided that we needed to play a little soccer before bed.

It was sons versus father. This is always a good idea. The goal of any athletic endeavor with young children should be, in my opinion, to make sure that they enjoy themselves, thus assuring further playing later. One essential key to a young child's enjoying a sporting event is having them enjoy success. This is much easier with both boys on the same team. If their team wins (i.e. if you lose), they are happy. This happiness is harder to attain when one child plays on the father's team. If the father's team wins, the lone player (usually my older son) feels cheated because he was alone; if the lone players wins, my team-mate (usually my 5-year old) feels cheated because he thinks I didn't try hard enough. With both boys on one team, my task was easy: let them win (although as I posted earlier: my "letting them win" is not so much a personal choice anymore; they are winning, but I am not sure that I am "letting" them). Our games are always good-hearted and played with much love, however, my older boy, perhaps the most susceptible to intensity, can become cut-throat competitive at the drop of a hat (or "way too hype" as my younger son puts it). He has his own way of dealing with his tendency to become too intense. His strategy? Win, or assure that the game will be played giving him a chance of winning. He had initially argued against playing with his brother (for fear that it would lessen his chances of winning). "He's not good enough," my older son complained, seemingly oblivious to his callous comments' effect on his brother's psyche. "Wait a minute," I said, "are you trying to say that, as a five-year old, your brother might not be at an eight-year old level? Are you insinuating that if you, my older son, were five and your brother was eight, you would not be good enough?" My older son grudgingly agreed that it was a matter of athletic development due to age and not an inherent "he's not good enough" from which his complaints emanated. My younger son didn't seem terribly distressed by his brother's original comment or mollified by my clarifying exactly what his older brother was trying to say. But, I had done my part as a parent to assure that no feelings were hurt. Before the game began, I made sure to inform my older son that I would adjust my play to the age of my opponents (i.e. I wouldn't shoot with as much force as I do when my eight-year old is in goal). Now, my older boy was eager to play. Once, he had been assured that the game would be fair, that he would carry no unfair burden he was fine. (I need to mention that my five-year old is actually a really good player; I am not intending to diminish his skills but merely to convey how my older son sees his younger brother's ability). For my older, his being intense in regard to a game is manageable so long as he feels the game is fair.
My younger son's approach to dealing with intensity is genius. He injects every competitive (or intense for these purposes) venture with a healthy dose of imaginary play. During our soccer game, for example, he would, after every save he made, twirl and slash an imaginary sword or punch the air twice, shoot a pretend bow, and kick the air. This was really funny, and made even more so by my older son's passionate pleas to "focus" or "pass me the ball" or "would you stop attacking imaginary foes! PLEASE!!!" I had to step in at one point and calmly tell my 5-year old that "if he wants to play soccer, he really needs to stop his pretend battles- at least until half-time." But this is my younger boy's way of dealing with an intense event. My younger boy avoids the intensity by refusing to completely commit to the intense event. Rather than engage fully in a game that is getting "way too hype," he keeps a healthy distance, battling his way to a peaceful spot. When the intensity is getting too much, my younger boy goes to perhaps his most comfortable spot: battling countless invisible enemies. If he can ever harness that energy and put it toward sports, he will be the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders (professional in multiple sports).
I have my own method of avoiding intensity. I don't like to acknowledge it, but I can be a tad competitive. This has made my playing tennis enjoyable, but often stressful. I think that I have found the perfect answer. My new tennis partners, whom I play with every Monday and Wednesday, are all 75-years old and older. Now, this may sound like a cop-out (playing much older players), but they are actually really good. Also, they play hard, but are not competitive at all. This is exactly the athletic environment that I enjoy. Also, they have the most prized time spot at the courts. They have the elusive 1:30 time spot. So treasured because it ends at 2:45, giving me the perfect amount of time to shower and walk next door to my boys' school for pick-up at 3:10. There are other rewards. Even players my own age have commented on my speed on the court, but people in their seventies- PLEASE. They are floored by my quickness. One of the guys I played with looked at me wistfully after I had run down a lob: "you're like a gazelle," he marveled. Perhaps the thing that I like most about my new tennis partners has nothing to do with athletics at all. They have a really cool nick name for themselves; for us, I guess. One of the players turned to me after tennis the other day. "Welcome to the AOFs," he said. "AOFs?" I asked. "We're the Awesome Old Farts," he said, "now we're the AOFs plus one."