Day 42

I can't quite fathom what it is to play frisbee in college. Everyday on my way to class I pass by Underhill, a large parking structure/astroturf playing field about two blocks away from my apartment in the direction of campus. Today I saw the women's lacrosse (that game with the funny sticks played by the people who didn't make it into ivy leagues) team practicing. Sometimes I see the ultimate frisbee team doing their drills on the clean, green astroturf. It usually seems to involve some permutation of running, throwing, and catching frisbees, all performed with the utmost precision. I tried playing on Underhill, once. The astroturf did not reward my predisposition to make dives.

But the mechanical efficiency of the team doing its drills seemed so joyless in comparison to what I remember from playing with my friends in high school on Friday afternoons, after school was out. To me, ultimate frisbee is the feeling of a muddy soccer field against bare feet, with the faint odor of pot on my friends. It is the feeling of pure machismo: shirtless, chest thumping machismo. It is the feeling of sprinting flat out, cutting through the air with bare skin. It is the feeling of running until my lungs start burning with satisfaction.

I don't think I've quite had that kind of experience for quite some time, now. I sure do miss it.