Frizbee

Musings today

I just had one too many go through my head and realized I had to start writing them down.

The one that just broke the camels back- it’s funny, I don’t talk about my frizbee skills very often, and I rarely join in when a game starts. But I always get a little thrill of excitement when one lands near me and they ask me to toss it back.

I bet if I paid attention I could see a look on their face that I probably get when an inexperienced girl picks up a frizbee and tries to throw it like a horizontal ball shot from a lop sided slingshot. She’ll lug the thing forward and it’ll fly maybe 10 feet and thunk to the ground in an awkward spiral that if she’s lucky will roll forward. I think that’s why girls don’t normally play Frisbee- they’re embarrassed to learn. Seems silly to me, when it requires so little energy from the body to play well. You just need to learn how.

When I was in elementary school (3rd 5th or 6th grade I can’t remember) we had a P.E. class where the instructor taught us how to throw. And I loved it. And I practiced.

When my parents were divorced and my father was still unmarried I remember playing a game in the park to relieve the enormous stress of being in the life we were living. It was called “boiling in oil”. Basically, my Dad would throw the disk to my older brother (who is about 4 years older than me and my brother who is 1.5 years younger than me) and if he dropped it, then he had 5 seconds to pick it back up before my father swooped upon us all in a tickle mess exclaiming “BOILING IN OIL!” And wither we were the victim of the attack or not didn’t matter, we were all laughing like madmen the entire time. It was my favorite game and literally one of my favorite memories (if one of the few) from that terrible time. I will always harbor a craving for Frisbee just because of that memory.

So I relish the times I get to pick up a disk; the sloping edges frayed from striking too much cement, grass stains coloring long streaks in haphazard patterns, and it’s dense weight under my slim fingers. I get a little delight when I release it toward my target- straight and even with a authority I didn’t know I had in my skinny arms. I can feel the power fly from me and I get a joy from watching it glide into the arms of a completely shocked long-time player.

At this point I shrug at their compliments and go back to what I was doing. Even though I long to join the game. Technically, I don’t have the strength to throw it as far as I’d like, to run as far as I need to, or catch effectively every time. So I can’t play with people who are serious. Normally I defer to casually teaching hotter girls than me to straighten their wrist until she feels too stupid in front of her/my friends and quits.

But it makes me laugh when a guy can’t get over what he saw. “Y’know, you’re really good. Why don’t you play with us?” “I saw you throw that thing, seriously come join our team next week.” “How come you don’t play with on Thursdays?” “We could use another person, I know you have the skills, Casey.” I just laugh and politely refuse over and over.

If the McDonald clan lacks any physical abilities (and we do), we make up for it in other ways. My older brother discovered his ability to play basketball in highschool (until he sprained his ankle) and then went on to build thin muscles in college playing Ultimate Frisbee. He nor I play anymore of course because life is full of other stuff we enjoy that take up time.

But if I had to come up with a closing thought here, I guess it would be the idea that I want to take my bookworm kids to the park and play ‘Boiling in Oil’ again to refresh us. To exhaust our bodies with running and laughter. To keep playing even when it cut your open palm. To remind them and me that we live in the world where grass grows.