Why must I be so obnoxious playing ultimate frisbee? Could it be because the name uses "ultimate" with no sense of pretention? If you suck at ultimate, are you still pretty good? Or, if like me, you happen to excel at ultimate, does that make my game penultimate frisbee? Regardless, why do I feel saddled with the burden of trash talking like a Crown Prince? If there are Harlem Globetrotters of frisbee, they can probably throw discs with their teeth and hit targets at obscene distances, catch a dozen tosses simultaneously, and look more natural in bright red, white and blue than I ever could. (Don't blame me; I'm a winter.)
Is it the constant yabbing that draws me out to the field Tuesday nights? Is it playing with (and schooling) kids half my age, two-thirds my weight, and twice my athleticism? Delusions of grandeur?
To the same extent, why don't I speak up as much on a softball field or volleyball court, where the players are a more captive audience? Perhaps the false sense of superiority is removed when I become the opposite end of the age spectrum. Pentagenarians aren't as easy to impress with a quick wit and a sharp tongue - to them I'm simply a wiseass whippersnapper. Could it be that I need to up my game to pro-levels? Not the sport itself, but the banter - after a solid spike, pull a sharpie from my sock and sign the volleyball before passing it to the crowd. Bash a dinger and do a victory lap around the bases? Victory dance? Victory lap dance?
Methinks I'll be quiet next time I play ultimate. I'll allow myself to speak up after someone asks me why I'm working the silent treatment. Or what's wrong. Or says, "Hi, Jim." (I'd hate to paint myself into a corner with limited options.)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment