More Than a Few Can Play That Game

It was a couple of days before classes started in my freshman year at Washington University when I noticed that there was a congenial mixer scheduled ... the engineering school’s Freshman Welcome Party and Picnic. Now, I imagine some of you are wondering, “Is he joking?” No, and the sad part of it is, I was eager to go. I’m a thousand miles from home, I know absolutely no one - with the exception of my roommate who I had only met the day before and whose suggestion that we, “finish a bottle or two of saki to christen our first night at college” I had misguidedly listened to.

So, I cart my aching head and queasy stomach to the fields on the other side of campus. I wander around, taking in all the geeks and outwardly normal appearing people that I am going to be studying with for the next four years. Sweat is already beading up on me in the heat of the St. Louis August day as I stroll past sign-up tables for chess club, math team, engineering council, and various engineering student groups. Then I notice a disc flying through the air. There’s a group of people throwing in the field behind the barbeques and T-shirt hawkers. I find myself drifting over there lured by the subtle beauty of an arcing disc against a cloudless sky.

There are about ten people running around throwing a single disc in an open area. It takes about fifteen seconds for my brain to register the fact, “they are playing ultimate.” My immediate follow-up is, “that’s our game.” I am still a little incredulous as I stumble down the small swale and through the trees until I am at the edges of the field.

“This can’t be. Who else could possibly know about this game?” I thought this was a secret ritual of a kind. Who else would play this outside of gym? How many gym teachers even knew enough about it to teach it to their students?

As a point is scored, someone on the field spots me and asks, “You wanna play?”
“Umm ... yeah ... sure.”
“Good, you’re on shirts.”
“Ok.”
I jog down to the line where the receiving team is gathering. “Hey my name is John I’m from Tennesee. This is Mark he’s from ... uh ... Colorado?”
“Yeah, Colorado.”
“”This is Suzy she’s from Massachusets.”
“Hey!”
“And you’re ...?
“I’m Bill ... from Connecticut.”
Did all these people from all over the country really know about ultimate frisbee?
“Well Bill,” says John, the apparent captain-by-default of our little band,”have you played ultimate frisbee before?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“Good. You have a forehand?”
“Uh ... kind of ... not really.”
“That’s ok, just a friendly game anyway. Get out there and run around.”

The first few points flow through me and around me in a kind of happy haze. At first, I’m just excited that other people ... people that I am going to be in school with, seem to know about this great game. Then, as the initial thrill wears off, I start to realize that there is a wide discrepancy among the players present. And, alarmingly, I’m not at the top. Sure, I’m faster than most everyone out there, but more than a few of these people have decent - or even phenomenal - forehands. They can throw it 25 ... even 30 yards. There’s even this one guy throwing the disc in this weird, overhand motion sending the disc blading and zipping to the opposite side of the field - UP SIDE DOWN! Who are these people? Who is that guy with that crazy throw that only a few people can catch?

Within an hour, the game begins to break up. Perhaps sixteen or seventeen people have cycled through the teams. Most apparently have had at least a little prior exposure to the game, some have not but were drawn by the spontaneous cheers and moans of momentary victories or defeats. My sneakers are completely grass-stained. My shorts and t-shirt are soaked with sweat and stained with dirt here and there. A couple of scrapes and raspberries adorn my knees and legs.

I am staring at the guy with the “weird upside-down throw.” He looks familiar, but I am sure I have never seen him before. He’s about 5 foot 6. Dark curly hair. Kind of skinny, but not completely without some muscle tone. Then it hits me, “That’s me.” Or rather, someone that looks a lot like me. Only with better throws.

As I drift near him, he says, “Hey, I’m Gary. This is Suzy.”
“Yeah, we were on the same team.”
“Oh, that’s right. The losing team.”
“Let’s not start that ...” Suzy bristles.
“Whatever, didn’t mean anything anyway,” Gary partially demurs.
I venture, “Hey, where did you learn that weird upside-down throw?”
“The hammer? At WPI.”
“WPI?”
“Worcester Polytech. In Massachusetts. I went there for science the past couple of years.”
“Are you a freshman or a transfer?”
“Freshman, I went to high school in Worcester. Just took the science and math classes at WPI.”
“Oh.” I was feeling way in over my head in more ways than one. It was a feeling I was to become extremely familiar with in the coming months.
“So, you’ve obviously played ultimate frisbee before, huh?” I hazard.
“Yeah, I’ve been playing a little over two years, Suzy’s played for, what ... year ... year and a half?”
“About that,” she agrees. Suzy is a sturdy, outdoorsy girl, a little taller than me, with dark blonde hair and strong, open features. I have already heard her off-beat laugh and a couple of roars of frustration during the game. She’s friendly and easy to be around. I like her.

I’m not too sure about this guy Gary, that appears to be her friend, or boyfriend. Sure, he looks a lot like me. And, yes, he is relatively witty, but there’s something about that look, that slightly intellectual superior attitude that I don’t really like ... apparently.

The whirlwind of college life quickly enveloped me. Registration for classes. Learning the layout of the campus. Struggling to establish a social life in the jumbled pecking order of strangers among strangers. Then, ominously and overwhelmingly, the magnitude of classwork and homework steadily building.

Somewhere, in the dizzying first few weeks of school, someone convinced me that I should try-out for the swimming and diving team.

I knew the soccer team was out. I was a competent player in high school. I could hedge off most wingers as a fullback and I could kick the ball surprisingly hard for a small guy. But I couldn’t score. I could never pull the trigger on the shot at the right time. I had spent the first two years in highschool as a striker/winger, and I could run fast enough and get open quickly enough to justify the position. But, once I had the ball I felt more comfortable passing it quickly and sprinting down field. If, by some mischance, I got possession of the ball near the opposing goal, as everyone else screamed, “SHOOT!” I would try to footwork the ball just one more time, or try for a little better shot ... and I would almost always, inevitably, lose it. Or kick it over the goal. Or just past the post. I had a dozen ways to just miss scoring. I was the king of “almost.”

My junior year in high school, my very astute coach noticed that I always drifted back too far on defense, even overlapping the mids. He, apparently, noticed that I was tenacious trying to get the ball, but didn’t seem much to want it once I had it. He put me back at fullback. All 5 foot 4 inches and one hundred thirty pounds of me at the time. I loved it. And I was pretty good. Not All-state good. Not even scholarship good. But good enough that our goal keeper liked having me back there and many opposing players got frustrated in not getting a decent shot off in a game. Soccer was my game. It was The Game. At least in high school. I had played for over eight years. I was a pretty good player. But Wash U’s team had just lost in the Division III championship the year before. I was a little intimidated.

I went out to the fields the first week of school - an undrafted (this was Division III) but also an unscouted walk-on. I watched a couple of practices. The coach was screaming at his players. They didn’t seem to be having a lot of fun. It was late August, so I knew that the season was a little ways away. I knew that the first few weeks ... hell weeks ... of sports are never fun unless you are on the top of the heap. But, I just didn’t have it in me. My serious soccer days were done. Hell, my serious sports days were done. The games were over, Real Life was verging. Might as well turn the page and move on to the next chapter.

I chose to be on the diving team because I needed a physical outlet and I figured the time away from studies would help my sanity. Also, the team was open to just about anyone that could handle the workouts. And they desperately needed divers. Good fit.