“Ultimate Frisbee”—a sport with a weirdly ambiguous and hyperbolic name—has also become huge in our state over the past couple of decades. There are now close to 200 Ultimate high school teams in the state, and each major university runs an elaborate intramural program for the sport.
When I played in my first (and only) fully-officiated Ultimate game in 2016, I made a fool of myself for two reasons: First, I had an inflated sense of my abilities based on initial experiences with the sport back in the early 2000s, when I was a leader in our local church’s youth program. I failed to notice back then that the only reason I excelled was because I was competing against inexperienced 12-year-old boys (and other adult leaders who, let’s be frank, were more familiar with handling overloaded paper plates at potluck picnics than frisbees).
Second, I got way too involved in my son’s sporting life. Here’s what happened: As he entered the local university (where I teach), I encouraged him to organize his own Ultimate intramural team. Not noticing his tepid response, I volunteered to stand in line early one morning to secure a team schedule for him, using my faculty ID.
When I was asked to provide a name for the squad, I chose, to my son’s later dismay, the “Disc Jockeys.” With more time, I might have been able to think of something better—though perhaps much nerdier—like Eleanor Frisbee, Lord of the Flings, or Game of Throws.
With schedule in hand, my son was too busy with classes and social opportunities to recruit teammates effectively. This resulted in a crisis on the morning of the first game: only he and three friends showed up—one short of being able to play.
Just as the head ref was about to forfeit the match, it occurred to me that I could save the day: because I had used my faculty ID to create the team, my name appeared on the roster as “team captain” and I was technically eligible to play.
Ignoring the voices of reason in my head, I stepped forward and announced, “I’LL PLAY!” I guess I was expecting expressions of gratitude, but instead, everyone just stared at me in confusion. When the female student in charge realized I was serious, she laughed apologetically and said, “I’m sorry, you’re not dressed properly…” I was wearing flip flops and long pants.
Not to be deterred, I said, “I’ll trade clothes with him!” and pointed to my son’s oversized buddy who was there just to watch. Taking her noncommittal shrug as a sign of approval, I ran with my son’s friend to the restroom to exchange clothes.
A significant problem emerged, however, as we started that process: this guy was huge. His giant, silky, basketball shorts went well past me knees (like baggy capri pants), the waist size a full five inches larger than mine. His shoes were also gargantuan: ratty, ankle-high basketball sneakers with worn down treads. Minutes later, as I self-consciously walked out of that bathroom, shoes flopping, holding up my shorts with one hand, I felt like a rodeo clown preparing for his first day of work.
It was too late to back out now, though (at least that’s what I told myself), and so I walked onto the field, heart racing. The starting whistle blew and I immediately became a liability for my team for several reasons.
First, because I was already tired from jogging three miles that morning, I couldn’t keep up with anyone. Second, each time I attempted to run, my slippy clown shoes would fail me, sending me stumbling into the sod. Third, because one of my arms was always busy holding up those giant shorts, I couldn’t guard opponents effectively. Finally, since it had been several years since I’d even held a Frisbee, my throws were wildly off target, sometimes almost hitting spectators.
The other team quickly learned to use me as a weak spot, and as halftime arrived, they were ahead, 7 to 0. During the ensuing ten-minute break I tried not to take it personally that my son and his teammates didn’t even include me in their strategy huddle. Free to wander dejectedly, I overheard one of the players from the other team exclaim to his girlfriend: “Our games never went this well last year!!”
In the second half things started out better, probably because my teammates pretended I wasn’t on the field; they scored two goals while the other team added an additional three. It was now 10 to 2. Knowing that the game would be called early if the other team scored just one more goal, I decided to focus on just lurking in the endzone, ready to be a hero by blocking any final catch.
Finally my moment of potential redemption came: A simple, floating pass was headed my way; I just had to take two steps and swat it out of the air.
My eagerness and slippy shoes failed me, however. I momentarily ran in place, legs churning like a cartoon character, and then went completely horizontal, planting my face in the sod while my opponent made an easy catch.
As I lay there, appalled at myself, I could hear the other team celebrating their victory over my inert body. I tried to pretend like I was unconscious, but then something surprising happened: I was lifted to my feet by the other team; they gathered around me, patting me on the back consolingly, trying to hold back laughter.
They were full of questions too about whether I had been putting on some kind of comedy act or prank. As humiliating as this line of questioning was, it did work as an effective intervention, helping me to see that I'd become way too involved in my son's college life.
It also helped me see that I might have a possible second career. You won't ever see m playing ultimate again, but I am willing to peform for about 50 bucks an hour--perhaps as comic relief in a halftime show for the Jazz, or at your child's next birthday party? I charge extra if I have to make any lame balloon animals.
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