Anyone who reads this blog probably knows me personally. And anyone who knows me personally also knows that I occasionally play ultimate frisbee. But on the off chance that I meet someone new, the subject of conversation inevitably gets around to “what I do”. If it’s a one-on-one dialogue then I can fake it and say I write sonnets or bake croissants–anything to avoid the embarrassment of explaining ultimate. Most likely, though, I have a friend along to squash all the fakery, so I just bite the bullet and utter the dreaded words…”I play ultimate.”

“Is that the frisbee golf thing?”

“No.”

“Does it involve dogs?”

“No.”

“What about…”

“Listen, I’m sorry I mentioned it…do you want another drink or what?”

Even if someone does conjure the correct “sport”, they probably imagine it looking something like this video (password: frizbay) of Kenny Dobyns & Co. in their glory days. Now, of course, Mr. Dobyns is a washed up old codger who gets his kicks from arguing foul calls in winter league.

Frisbee is a fun and physically demanding and I’m pretty good at it. But if I feel my head getting a little too big, I just close my eyes and think of Kenny yelling “This is not a game out here, this is your life!”