By Cory Armstrong-Hoss / Herald Forum
There are moments when we run, wide-eyed, looking to the sky. The spinning disc soaring in the mid-day sun could break right, left or not at all. Anything is possible.
These are moments from pick-up Ultimate Frisbee in Everett.
I am the kid who, in Mrs. Alf’s fourth grade class, would count down the moments until our 25-minute morning recess, until I could dash out to play kick ball. I’m the 14-year-old, prying open the old gym door at Pioneer Middle School on a rainy Sunday with my brother and our friends to shoot hoops. I’m the college sophomore in 1999 who, realizing the power of email, started a pickup soccer listserv with my friend Josh. “Meet today at Ankeny Field at 3:30 p.m. Game on.”
On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I know how many moments there are until noon. Until I can play Ultimate, which involves passing a disc among teammates to get to the end zone.
We are a ragtag bunch: reformed soccer players, swimmers, runners, baseball players, non-athletes, a few teens, a few dudes in their 60s, and even Zul, in his early 70s, crafty and willing to foul hard then crack a wry smile. Most of us are in-between. We like to run hard, compete, give each other crap:
“Hoss, let me know if you feel like playing defense at some point today, OK?”
“Robinson, is your twin brother going to show up? You know, the one who’s good at Ultimate?”
“Chris, is there a secret turnover record you’re going for today? I think you’re close.”
I love Ultimate for the throws. Most people use a backhand to throw a disc, but advanced players have forehands (or flicks), hammers, inside-outs, scoobers, thumbers, rollers (for pulls, or kick-offs), and chicken wings.
I love Ultimate for the vibe. Our pickup is a perpetual goodwill machine on turf. Everyone wants to keep playing, have fun, and avoid injury. No one wants to play with jackasses, the kind who might knock you down when leaping for a disc. They don’t tend to last, or their rougher edges get sanded down. As mine did.
I love Ultimate for the movement. When the game flows, it’s a dance; short tosses and curving arcs probe the defense until that one daring disc: maybe a hammer to Brian, who’s broken free of the defense to the back of the end zone. A sideline forehand to Nels in the corner. A scoober to Erin in the end zone, the upside-down disc tracing a short rainbow over the heads of the defenders.
I love ultimate for the people. Engineers from Boeing or big tech; coaches and teachers and pastors; cops and county analysts; Tim the school bus driver and Louis the cop; five Chrises, three Daves and a couple Steves; college kids, retirees and all of us in between, who share a baseline philosophy: “This beats the hell out of running on a treadmill.”
I discovered it in 2009, at 30, with a 2-year-old son at home. Now, as time spins away from me, I’ve played through 15 years. A few weeks ago my third child — 9-year-old CeCe — joined us. I asked if she wanted her shoes, but she insisted on baby blue Crocs. “I’ll put them in sport mode,” she said, with the heal strap down, with that “duh, Dad” tone. The kid held her own that day, among college kids home for the summer, teachers still on break and us regulars.
We play white shirts vs. darks, and ask you to remember three things: 1. Don’t wear gray; 2. Don’t be a jerk; and 3. Don’t worry if you’ve never played before and only have a backhand. Things will keep on spinning, and before you know it, you might hit Dan in the end zone with a sweet hammer.
Game on.
Cory Armstrong-Hoss lives in Everett with his wife and three kids. His kids have played a number of different sports. He’s an lifelong athlete, and he’s served as a coach, official and youth sports administrator. If you’d like to get on the email lists for pickup ultimate in Everett, send him a message at substack.com/@atahossforwords.
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