Technically, March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. There's something wrong with Charlottesville's climate though, so we're getting an early spring. With the more temperate weather comes the skipping of classes, a wardrobe changeover and the return of the play object that instills an inordinate amount of fear within me: the Frisbee.
For many, the Frisbee is a fun toy to break out in the nice weather and toss around with a few friends in a picturesque locale like the Lawn.
To me, the Frisbee is a constant reminder of my inadequacies as a human being and proves that any object, no matter how harmless it looks can, in fact, be wielded as a dangerous weapon.
I have never been good at throwing Frisbees. That whole aiming thing has completely eluded me for years. When I used to agree to play with the plastic disc, my companion would end up running at least a good mile in pursuit of my wayward throws.
In junior high one of the P.E. units was ultimate Frisbee.
Every day for a month I gave my teammates cause for consternation. We won only one game - the game in which I never once touched the Frisbee. As a rule, we were supposed to get the Frisbee passed to us so we could all contribute something to game. If anyone attempted to throw me the Frisbee, they were pretty much guaranteed that I would fumble it and the other team soon would have possession. If I ever actually caught the thing, inevitably I would throw it out of bounds.
Then one day, during an intense match, something miraculous happened. The Frisbee came sailing my way and landed squarely in my hands. Moments later, still in shock, I scanned the field for an open man to whom I could pass the Frisbee. I found him 12 feet away, waving his arms at me. With unusual gusto I launched the thing at him. For once it was headed directly for my target. Unfortunately, it was headed directly for my teammate's nose - at an uncommon velocity.
Seconds later, he was in a heap on the ground groaning, his hands over his nose, which was bleeding profusely. He went to the emergency room that afternoon, but it turned out that I hadn't broken his proboscis. I had merely given him cause for enmity over the following few years.
After that, I abstained from any and all Frisbee activities. At the beach I never joined the frolicking masses as they played their happy games. I never went to picnics bearing a disc of danger. I realized that I was simply not meant to play the game.
Years later when I arrived at college where everyone was hot for Frisbee, I began to wonder if maybe I should go ahead and give the activity a try. Maybe I'd improved with age.
Once during my first year I made it all the way to the Lawn with the express intention of playing Frisbee with some friends. When we actually got to our destination and I looked around at all the innocent pedestrians who were potential victims of my complete ineptness in the Frisbeeing field, I panicked and decided to just watch my friends have a good time.
Later that summer I worked as a counselor at a camp that offered Frisbee golf as an activity. It was a very popular activity, in which I was forced, by virtue of my position, to participate. It became a running joke around camp that any Frisbee I touched would become lost somewhere in the woods. Campers on hikes far from any golfing landmark would find my errant Frisbees, usually in or suspiciously close to a patch of poison ivy. It is believed that I lost something like 11 Frisbees that summer.
People are always trying to convince me that Frisbee isn't all that challenging, and that if I put some effort into it I'd be a fine Frisbee player. I've put a lot of effort into Frisbee over the years and none of it has done any good. If it's possible, I'm even worse at the game now than I was when I was younger.
The other evening as I was heading to the dining hall, some guys were playing a leisurely game of Frisbee. In his effort not to hit me while attempting to get the Frisbee to his friends, one of the gentleman's tosses didn't quite make it to its intended destination. Instead it landed softly at my feet. I picked up the white and orange disc from the ground and was going to walk it over to one of the guys when he smiled at me and said, "Just throw it."
"Oh! I can't throw a Frisbee," I told him shaking my head. "I'm really bad."
He insisted. "Come on, just throw it. You can do it."
Something about this stranger's confidence moved me, and I figured what the heck.
So, I took a deep breath and gave a flick of my wrist. He never even had a chance to catch the flying object. It sailed past the poor boy and into the street, where to my horror seconds later it was run over by a passing car. Embarrassed beyond belief, I stood for a bit with my mouth opened, as he ran to retrieve his injured toy.
"I'm so sorry," I kept repeating when he returned with his battered but not broken Frisbee. His friends had been howling since I first chucked the thing.
He flashed me that same smile that had first incited the incident. "You're really not good at this are you?"
"No, I'm not," I replied before dropping my head and continuing on my way.
Not everyone is meant to play Frisbee. I have accepted the fact that I am incapable of joining in any Frisbee fun. Obviously, I'm missing the Frisbee gene.
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