Frisbee

Been playing Frisbee with M, and it sounds silly to say that my flicking arm feels sore, but it is. Frisbee reminds me of campgrounds and sunny holidays, travelling and hanging out with new and old friends. It’s a sport, sort of, and the practice isn’t gruelling at all. You can’t really break it down into steps; you have to just do it in order to improve.

Take a sunny day and a grassy spot, or a beach, or a soccer field. Invite some friends and strangers and even little kids. There is no goal or objective except for those that smooth out the interpersonal connection; aiming helps, as does catching the disc when it floats toward you. There are showy throws and catches, and it’s exciting to watch the experienced, graceful player who jumps to catch, or catches it with an arm behind the back. M plays daily, and he’s really good. His throws are as smooth as fine silk.

Last night, I was so engrossed in the back-and-forth that the sky was practically in shadows before I realized it. I’d been playing in bare feet, and my soles were black and tenderized from running over the uneven ground. We were playing at a soccer field on the edges of a game in play, when another spectator joined us. He threw the disc so that it spun vertically, and M gasped profoundly, like an archaeologist unearthing a religious relic: “the hammer!”

“you unleash the disc
space ship wit’ a green sheen
way I sees it
it’s the ultimate time machine

whip off your watch
hit the grass in the hot sun
flick of your wrist
and that’s it
your day’s done”