Part I: The Fall Season
It is known that all Ultimate players wax poetic when pressed on flying discs. If you’ve ever heard two speak, you’d swear you didn’t understand a word of your own language. When they talk to people in the outside world, they try to limit the jargon they use, so we’ll understand and want to play Ultimate. They’re always recruiting. They think they’re slick calling long throws hucks. They speak of throws such as the backhand (like tennis), the forehand (other side, palm up), and of course, the hammer (overhead, upside-down). A word of advice: if you don’t know any Ultimate players, and you happen across some, do not ask them how many beers fit in a Frisbee. In some circles, this is a challenge.
Chapter 1
Kevin walked to the quad with a pep in his step. He held a 175-gram Ultra Star disc, a Frisbee to the ignorant, and a universal sign for the initiated. This disc was well-loved and worn in all the right ways. It was the only equipment needed to play his favorite sport: Ultimate.
Today was the day Kevin would meet his future teammates. An email had come earlier in the week announcing a throwing session on the quad during first-year move-in. Fifteen minutes before the Ultimate team was set to gather, Kevin threw his parents out of his new room, his mother still sobbing lightly, and practically skipped to the quad. He had given his email to the captain, Stephen, at Accepted Student Day some months ago. He was relieved, this was the first message Kevin received. When Stephen realized Kevin was serious about Ultimate, he pulled a different notebook out of his backpack for Kevin to write his email in. Apparently, the one displayed on the table was full of fake emails so the Dean would think the Ultimate team was really popular. That brand of goofy hijinks was exactly what Kevin looked forward to as a member of a college Ultimate team.
In his off-campus apartment, Waffles took a big inhale from the comically large bong that lived on the coffee table. His roommate called from the doorway, “Come on, dude! I’m leavin’ without ya!” Tape was cool, but he didn’t have the same chill as Waffles. They balanced each other out well. Waffles grabbed his bike from the hallway and joined Tape. The ride downhill to campus was 1,000 times more enjoyable than the bike home.
“You don’t think Rachel will come?” Stephen and Amy walked down the stairs from the library. The Rat Star captains met early to send a few emails and discuss the season.
“No, you know she hates rookies,” Amy said. Stephen had already written Rachel off in his mind; she hated the “pomp and circus” around recruiting and wanted to skip to the part where the team was suddenly bigger, with people that understood the rules and could throw a dump.
“Oh well,” Stephen said back. “Tape and Waffles should both be here.” They reached the bottom of the stairs, pushed the door open, and stepped out into a beautiful fall day. Smalls was already on the quad, throwing a disc with a prospective recruit. Amy and Stephen looked at each other with wide eyes and disbelieving smiles. The freshman was wearing cleats!
Smalls. Kevin drilled the name into his head so he wouldn’t forget. Smalls was cool as a cucumber, like nothing in the world could bother him. And his throws were just as smooth. Kevin tried to run for every disc Smalls threw, but he never had to move. Awesome! He tried to throw his best stuff right at Smalls.
“How long have you been on the team?” Kevin asked.
“Two seasons,” Smalls said. “I’m a junior.” He threw the disc in a gentle arc that cut through the air toward Kevin. Smalls pointed behind Kevin, “Those are the captains, Stephen and Amy.” Kevin made sure to catch the disc before spinning around. He recognized Stephen from Accepted Student Day, but the short brunette was unfamiliar. He watched as they each dropped a backpack to the ground. Stephen jogged over.
“What’s up, dude?” Stephen said to him. “I’m Stephen.” They shook hands.
“Kevin! We met at Accepted Student Day.” Kevin nervously threw to Smalls, acutely aware that every throw was being watched. He could only make a first impression once.
“Of course!” Stephen replied. He caught a pass from Smalls, then casually tossed it to Kevin. A throwing triangle. “Love to see you have cleats! We’re not really supposed to wear them on the quad, but you’re fine for today.”
“Oh, sorry!” Kevin flushed.
“No worries, it’s good to see! Some folks try to make it through the fall season without.” Stephen shivered and threw an effortless forehand. “Couldn’t be me.”
Eager to share his experience of being stepped on by someone wearing cleats, Kevin proclaimed, “I’d hate to get cleated barefoot!” From behind them, Amy spoke.
“Waffles and Tape are here— now it’s a party,” she said. “Hi! I’m Amy! The other captain, with Stephen.” She walked up to Kevin with a hand extended. Amy was a woman. She looked like an adult, and she was gorgeous.
“Kevin,” he said. Look normal, he thought. He concentrated on his throw to Smalls, eager to impress the captains.
“Ah, the old ‘dad backyard cookout’ throw,” Amy said.
“Yeah,” Smalls chimed in, throwing to Stephen. “Figured you should take care of that, Ames.”
“Huh?” Kevin flushed. First the cleats and now his throws? A lanky guy ran by them and sprung into the air, grabbing a disc flying very high up. When he landed, he flung it back across the quad to another tall, slim guy in jeans and no shoes.
“Well,” Amy began. She got in front of Kevin, bent her knees slightly, and outstretched her arms, defending against Kevin’s throw. This only made him more nervous. “With a mark on, that throw is really easy to block. That’s why everyone flicks. Forehand, flick, same thing.”
“Ah,” Kevin said. “I tried in high school, but I couldn’t really make it work.” He tried to hide his discomfort and remember how to hold the disc for a forehand.
“No worries! Here, hold it like this.”
Stephen looked over. “She’s the best teacher we’ve got, Kev. You’re in good hands.” He ran off to greet a few kids standing on the edge of the quad, watching. Kevin did his best to mimic Amy’s hand placement on the disc.
“Great! The key is to keep your palm facing up and spin it off your fingers.” Kevin tried it, but the disc flopped to the ground, rolling to Smalls.
“Shit,” Kevin mumbled to the ground. “Is throwing a flick required to make the team?” Everyone who heard him laughed.
Smalls shouted, “You’ve got cleats! You’re practically a starter!”
Amy was smiling. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it soon. You said you played pickup in high school, right? We’re thrilled to have some experience! Keep working at it!” Amy left then, jogging over to the group Stephen was talking to.
Stephen raised a hand and yelled across the quad, “Waffles, Tape.” He motioned with his hand for them to come over. The two lanky guys jogged to the group and introduced themselves. They each grabbed a throwing partner and got into the throwing line, one person near Kevin and the other near Smalls, so that each pair threw parallel to each other. Kevin worked on his flick with Smalls; it wasn’t going well.
The lanky, older-looking guy beside Kevin spoke to his throwing partner. “What’s your major?” Across from them, a girl caught the disc and made a poor attempt to throw it back.
“Physics! At least for now. My dad says I should get a mechanical engineering degree instead.”
The lanky guy looked at Kevin as he corralled the rolling disc. “Hey, I’m Tape. Nice cleats!”
Kevin flushed. “Thanks. That’s a funny nickname.”
“Short for Tape Measure.” He looked back at the girl. “So a science type, I can work with that.” He held the disc up to his face and moved it at different angles. “Libby, right?” She nodded. “Give the disc a single axis of rotation; that’s the secret. If you give it motion in multiple axes, it will wobble.”
The shoeless guy had taken off his shirt, too, and rolled up the legs of his jeans. Kevin surmised that this was Waffles. Waffles snorted at Tape Measure’s explanation. “Fuckin’ nerd. It’s all feel. Ultimate’s a game of touch.” He lunged low and threw a beautiful backhand practically from the ground. The disc flew flat and right to the chest of the rookie he was throwing with. Tape Measure rolled his eyes.
The girl, Libby, watched Waffles with amazement. “No, no, the axis of motion definitely helped! I wouldn’t have thought of it like that.”
The throwing continued for about half an hour. People came and joined and left so that the throwing groups were always fluid. Kevin learned that Tape Measure was a senior engineering student. The team finished second in a tournament last year and got beaten early in the WallowOp Championship by a team they should’ve crushed. “Travesty,” Stephen said. Eventually, the throwing lines dissolved into two groups standing on opposite sides of the quad, throwing hucks back and forth. When this started, Stephen and Amy announced they would have their first practice on Thursday night, details would be emailed, and then they left the quad.
Waffles and Tape were able to throw hammers the length of the quad! Kevin wondered how long it would take him to be able to do that. Everyone was so cool and nice. Even though discs flew everywhere and there was no structure, Kevin was having fun with his new team. That is, until he tried to throw a huck himself. He wound up, hopping several times and coiling his body for maximum power. He should’ve paid more attention to his aim, though, because he completely missed the quad and threw into sidewalk traffic, nearly nailing a professor.
“FUCKING FRISBEES!” They yelled, shaking a fist.
“Sorry!” Kevin felt terrible and embarrassed. Waffles was on the ground clutching his stomach, rolling with laughter. Today did not go as Kevin planned. But all his teammates were very inviting, goofy, friendly, willing to teach, and happy to be throwing discs. Kevin had to get better at Ultimate, but he was happy his new teammates all turned out to be cool.
…
WallowOp and America aren’t so different. In fact, they have so much in common that a multi-dimensional traveler visiting one from the other would assume they were in a parallel universe. By the year 2000, both places had developed indestructible Nokia cellular phones and Blackberries that could access electronic mail from select locations. Music streaming lawsuits dominated nightly news in both places but were ignored for a hot new show called Survivor.
In 1966, kids at Columbia High School in Maplewood, New Jersey, America, developed a game they called Ultimate. By 1971 they had started a league and set in motion a series of events that would lead to the Ultimate scene in America: a self-officiated, all-inclusive sport preparing for professional leagues by early 2000.
At roughly the same time in 1966, in a world across the universe, a group of students not unlike those at Columbia High School started throwing Frisbees and playing a game indistinguishable from the one invented in New Jersey. The kids of Columbia High School in New Portland, WallowOp, organized games of Ultimate for their friends and peers. Soon the staff joined in. The game quickly gained the general public’s attention, and by the year 2000, a professional league with eight teams was well established. They had sponsors, TV deals with local broadcasting companies, and could even pay their players! This was one of the only ways an observer might distinguish America from WallowOp at that time. Culturally, of course; the geographies of each had nothing in common.
The Pull. Every point of Ultimate starts with The Pull. Analogous to an American Football kickoff, one team “pulls” or throws the disc to the other team. Each player starts lined up with their team in their respective defending end zone. Once the disc is thrown, play starts. The team receiving the pull receives the disc and starts on offense. After a team scores, they pull to their opponents to start the next point.
Kevin stood by the statue of Rat McDaniels, founder of Young Rat Christian Academy, in the center of campus. Allston’s only school, YRCA had expanded far beyond its illustrious seminary into a university that offered a multitude of degrees. The campus consisted of various buildings the school had gobbled up throughout the heart of the city. The Allston skyline was beautiful, and Kevin was a suburban kid still excited to live in the big city. He thought they called it the “Rat City” because of the brilliant Arch-Bishop that led the city out of the Great Depression before founding the Academy of higher learning. Kevin didn’t know the extent of the city’s vermin infestation, the ironic bane that Father McDaniels could never overcome.
Today was Thursday and the first day of practice. Kevin had a gym bag slung on his shoulder with his cleats and a disc inside, as well as a water bottle and a reversible pinnie he used at pickup games. He had made plans to meet the other rookies here, and Amy agreed to walk them to the fields for the first time. Libby was the first to arrive— they exchanged awkward greetings of “Hey” and “Hi.”
“I told my parents to send my futbol cleats!” Libby told him excitedly. “I didn’t think I would need them at school, but it was so fun throwing the Frisbee around the other day!”
“Awesome! Yeah, it’s really addicting,” Kevin said.
“What do you think practice will be like?”
“At my high school, we would throw and do a couple warm-up drills before playing. Probably something like that.”
They stood awkwardly for a few minutes, looking at the statue and the people walking by, before Bongo arrived.
“Are you Ultimate Frisbee people?” Bongo asked them skeptically.
“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Bongo, right?” Bongo stiffened.
“How do you know my name?”
“We met on the quad the other day. I’m Kevin.” Bongo’s abrasive behavior put Kevin off balance.
“Oh! Cool! Hi Kevin, I’m Bongo!” They shook hands. “And you are?”
“Libby! Are you excited for practice?”
“I don’t know yet,” Bongo lowered his voice. “I’m not really sure what these people are about. Did you get a good read on them?” Kevin and Libby looked at each other.
“Well,” Kevin said, “they seemed nice to me.” Libby nodded. Bongo nodded his head continuously and remained quiet. A minute or two later, two other rookies joined. Kevin recognized Leo but not the other.
“Hello,” Patrick waved awkwardly. He spoke with a slight lisp. “I’m Leo’s roommate Patrick. He said this would be fun!” Slowly a few others joined, some Kevin recognized and some he didn’t, in various states of preparedness. Some wore jeans and altogether unathletic-looking attire, while others had clearly played futbol, basketball, or something else that intimidated Kevin. He was determined to be the best rookie.
Amy jogged up to the group, her overloaded backpack swinging wildly behind her. “Hey, everyone!” She said. She pointed with her hand and said, “Two, four, six, eight. Great! Expecting anyone else?” They all looked at each other. “Super! Let’s get out of here!”
Stephen was at the field early, tossing conversationally with Coach Kirby. They weren’t trying to get better by throwing back and forth right now, just satisfying some Darwinian instinct that made it easier for them to talk if their hands were busy.
“You like that end zone drill to start?” Coach Kirby asked. He was in his usual practice attire; business casual slacks, a button-down whose buttons had been popped open at the top, and cleats—traded from the steel-toed boots that sat in the grass, forgotten.
“After tossing? We should probably just throw for like half an hour, have Amy go over some of the basics for everyone to start.” Stephen was excited to practice again, but with it came the small anxiety of being in a leadership position: people looked to him for example, and answers. Not to mention the logistics: organizing rides, getting places to stay at tournaments, and corralling teammates. Coach Kirby nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, of course, of course.”
“End zone will work then. We can kind of go over a stack.”
“We really should. We’ve gotta scrimmage.”
“Gotta scrim, or the people will riot.”
They threw back and forth in silence for a minute. Coach Kirby was captain Kirby just a few years ago, and Stephen’s captain for two years as he learned the game. The tradition of coaching once you graduated was deeply rooted in Rat Stars’ history; it was hard to find people that knew the game and also wanted to live near Allston Rat City.
“How’s everyone doing?” Kirby asked. “Trashford house holding it together?”
Stephen sighed. “They’re good, I think. Gotta keep an eye on Waffles. I don’t think Tape or Martin will.”
“That’s for sure. How’s Amy? Have you seen Rachel yet?”
“You know Ames,” Stephen tried a hammer, missing his Coach wide left. “She’s solid. It’s nice being second-year captains. We’ve done it all once, so this year should be easier. Right?”
“Should be.”
“Rachel…” Stephen hesitated. “She’ll be here, as much as she just wants to skip the first month of practices.”
“Have you thought about how we could keep her engaged? Do you think she wants to run workouts?”
“Doubt it. I’ve never had a good handle on her. Try to stay out of her way and not push too hard, ya know?”
“Yeah, I get it. I’m not sure if that’s healthy or if it’s shoving something under the rug.” Kirby laughed. “I didn’t retain an iota of information from high school Psych. Except the creepy mother-fucking shit.”
Stephen chuckled. “Just want to keep her happy. Amy said she played and worked out all summer. Probably the best lady in the league, even if she took the summer off.”
“And only a junior.” A pause. “Why is she playing at YRCA? Like, don’t people that good choose a school with a good team?”
“Dude,” Stephen shook his head. “I’ve wondered for a long time.”
“Well, let’s try to keep her happy.”
Stephen checked his watch. The returners should all be here in the next ten minutes because Stephen had told them to be here now. Amy and the rookies would be here in fifteen minutes, and she was never late. They wanted the returners to arrive a little earlier than the rookies, but Stephen knew that was wishful thinking. He asked Kirby, “How’s work?”
“You know, same shit. Dumbass GC and shitty contractors. Had a good plumber-electrician fight the other day.”
“I feel like you told me about a plumber-electrician fight over the summer?”
“Pretty normal.” They laughed.
As they walked to the field, Amy caught herself completely tuning out Patrick the rookie. He had started rambling about a Japanese Samurai movie, but he was on homing pigeons when she zoned back in. He was filling most of the air, and no one except the rookie Bongo seemed entirely sure how to maintain a conversation with him. She cursed herself for judging them— they certainly seemed to fit a popular Ultimate player stereotype: too odd to fit anywhere else.
Amy had played ice hockey as a girl. She didn’t find much success in high school before a few concussions forced her retirement from contact sports. She reasoned with herself that Ultimate wasn’t a purposely contact sport, but she knew there was always the risk of hitting her head. It was a possibility she didn’t think about often. The concussions set her far behind in school, and a lurking depression followed her into college. But then she fell in love with throwing discs. It became her therapy. She could go out and toss for hours, working to perfect various flight paths and manipulate the disc to her will. She had come to college confused— unsure of what to study and what she wanted to do with herself. Joining the Rat Stars had filled a void for her that she didn’t even know existed. As weird as they were, she was part of a team again. She had missed the comradery of bonding with teammates on and off the field. They were goofy and didn’t take themselves too seriously, so the pressure to perform was completely absent, unlike her last few years in hockey. In Ultimate, she could have poise and make big plays; she was on the field when the team needed a point. She gained confidence in herself and had a community where she was valued.
She had volunteered to walk the rookies to the field. Stephen mentioned that Kirby was leaving work early to meet and review a few things. She could’ve gotten someone else to walk the rookies over, but she wanted to make a good impression. This was her and Stephen’s last year, and it was unclear who would take over leadership. It was a lot of work to keep a strong team together, and that started with strong recruiting.
“Amy,” Libby got her attention. “What are practices like?” Patrick and Bongo were a little behind them now, but Kevin and Leo also seemed interested in her answer.
“Well, typically we toss for a few minutes before going for a jog and like, stretching and stuff. Then we’ll do some kind of warm-up drill. Things kind of depend after that. Sometimes we have different stuff to work on, like offensive or defensive stuff. We usually play a few points at the end.”
“You guys run offense and defense like the pros?” Kevin asked.
“Kind of,” Amy replied. “A lot of them are similar, but they do some things we can’t. And we can do some things that they can’t.”
Confused, Libby asked, “Things the pros can’t do?”
“Yeah. Like, for example, if everyone on the field is a pro, they’re, like, really smart and talented and athletic. That’s not always the case in college. Sometimes we can trick people.”
“Do we have a lot of good players?” Libby asked.
“We have some really good players! But I’ll let you see for yourself. This is the field!”
Practice went about as well as Kirby could have hoped. The team was rusty, and the rookies weren’t prodigies, but that was to be expected. You could only hope for one Rachel to join the team for every hundred recruits. A few returning players had joined summer leagues, but depending on the league, it could do more harm than not playing. Kirby noticed that Waffles had developed a scoober habit that wouldn’t translate to the competitive play in CULT (College Ultimate League Tournaments), no matter how many times he shouted “GAME READY” after throwing.
Practice was almost over, so the team scrimmaged. Libby and Waffles chatted nearby on the sideline, sitting out this point.
“So,” Libby hesitated. “Everyone has ten seconds to throw?”
“Yupp,” Waffles said. “The stall count.”
“And the defender counts the seconds?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, what happens if I’m on defense and forget to count?”
“If there’s no stall count,” Waffles shrugged. “They can hold the disc forever.”
Kirby watched the pull go off. There was nothing pretty about this scrimmage, but Ultimate players needed to play Ultimate, not run drills all practice. They’d never come back if he drilled them the whole time. Hell, that’s not how he wanted to coach. The offensive line was chaos; the rookies were in the wrong places; the returners overcompensated and tried to make cuts when they shouldn’t have. Kirby watched the frustration boil over as Rachel and Stephen made a soundless agreement from across the field. Kirby was happy they waited this long. Rachel took off deep, and Stephen uncurled a big huck that gently floated to the end zone. Even though Tape saw it happening and ran to defend, he couldn’t beat Rachel to the spot. She high-pointed the disc, snatching it from the air at the apex of her jump. She landed gracefully and nodded toward Stephen. She fielded high fives from all her teammates dutifully. She didn’t look happy to score but relieved. She probably felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage during the scrimmage.
Kirby clapped. “Great run, Rach. Stephen, we’ll need those tosses all season long. Those need to be second nature. Alright, bring it in, everyone.” They gathered around him, some kneeling, others with hands on hips. “Grab water if you need it. I want to talk about something important.”
Kirby shuffled some papers on his clipboard and cleared his throat. “Returners, don’t zone this out. It’s important to review every year. Rookies, have you seen any professional games before? You might’ve heard of PUFF; it stands for Pro Ultimate Frisbee Federation.” Kevin raised his hand and looked around. “Good!” Kirby said. “Well, it’s important for everyone to understand we don’t use referees in Ultimate. We call our own fouls, like pickup basketball. We talked about some rules today. I’m glad there was a foul in the scrimmage so we could naturally go over it. It’ll take some time for you new folks to learn the rules, but you’ll get it. Anyway, Ultimate relies on a very important principle called Spirit. Any returners wanna tell us what that means to them?” Waffles raised a hand from where he sat lackadaisically on the ground. He didn’t wait to be called on.
“You can’t be an asshole.” A few of the players chuckled.
“Well,” Amy said, looking at Kirby. “He’s not wrong.”
“Nope, that’s it in a nutshell.” Kirby threw the clipboard aside now. “It means everyone has an obligation to play fairly. By stepping on the field, we’re all agreeing that we’ll play the game hard, the best we can. But winning is not more important than everyone’s physical and emotional safety. It’s sportsmanship and integrity. How many of you have never played an organized team sport before?” Kirby looked around as various hands went up. “That’s okay. It’s not a pre-req for Ultimate. A lot, a lot of people come to Ultimate as their first team sport. It’s the perfect sport to start.
“So Waffles says there’s a ‘Don’t be an Asshole’ rule. What’s that mean?” Kirby talked a lot with his hands. “We don’t taunt other players, we don’t foul on purpose, we don’t do anything that could get anyone hurt. We respect the other team, and they show the same back. It’s actually a rule that you can’t catch the disc if it means you have to knock someone over to do it. Capiche?” Kirby looked at Stephen, then Amy. “Captains? Anything to add?”
Stephen stood cross-armed and serious. “We, as teammates and competitors, have to hold each other accountable to this. It’s one of the things that makes this sport special.”
“It doesn’t mean that we like, don’t care about winning,” Amy added. “It just means we’re doing this for fun, and it should be fun. We have like, a ton of friends on other teams.”
“Ultimate people rule,” Waffles added.
Kirby nodded. “Any questions?” The team was quiet. “Good. Waffles, break us down.”
Waffles stood up, and everyone put their hands in the middle. “Don’t be assholes on three. One, two, three….”
“DON’T BE ASSHOLES.”
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