Attack Of The Killer Frisbee

 

I am not an athlete - never  have been.  I wasn’t picked last in the school playground games, but I was, shall we charitably say, usually in the lower percentile group.  I tried to play football in high school but I was not very good.  Plenty big, but too slow. Then I cracked a vertebrae, which ended my NFL aspirations. Golf was and is my passion, and I am a decent player - but I lack any natural ability. Whatever skills I have were acquired by spending countless hours on the practice tee. So I’m envious of anyone who is a “natural athlete”, those people who excel at every sport they play because of a God-given gift. My gift was writing and making people laugh - whoopty do!

But there was an exception. There one sport that I was good at.  I was a natural from the first time I picked one up. I could throw a Frisbee.  Thank you Wham-O!  Now there are a number of sports and competitions that involve the iconic disc, but in the late sixties, it was still considered a toy of sorts.  It didn’t matter to me; I loved it.  As a 13 year-old, a lot of my spare time was occupied flinging that disc.  Underhanded, sidehanded, even upside down, I could accurately throw a Frisbee.  I mastered the behind the back catch. Soon I learned how to make the disc boomerang - sailing high in the air before returning to my hand.  In no time, I could easily fling it over the highest power line, and have it return to me under the lowest one. 

Predictably, Wham-O began to sell a bigger, better model called a Master Frisbee. I was drawn to it like a Sumo wrestler to a lunch buffet. It was beautiful.  Solid black with a metallic gold ring, it was thicker and heavier than the original disc.  And it was also approved by the International Frisbee Association - which was probably just a couple of hippies living in a duplex near San Francisco.  I had to have one.  So, I began to save nickel and dime until finally, I had enough cash to bring one home. 

The new disc forced me to make some adjustments. Because of its weight and size, the Master Frisbee required more power to throw and more focus to catch. No matter - soon I was boomeranging this black beauty like, well, a master. I loved the  distinctive “Kthunk” sound it made when it returned to my hand. 

When our family made it’s annual annual trip to Gulf Shores, I made sure to pack my new Frisbee.  I thought the wide open  beaches would be a perfect place to practice my skills. 

It was wonderful.  Every day on the beach I played with the Frisbee, throwing it long distances from dune to dune. As we got closer to the weekend, the beach  crowds began to make my disk slinging a bit more difficult. But it didn’t stop me - I was flinging that thing like nobody’s business.  

The boomerang was my favorite beach throw.  The gentle incoming breeze made it easy to launch the Frisbee over the ocean, have it reverse direction, and snap back in my hand.  By this time, I had a great feel for the disk, and was throwing it higher than ever. In fact, I noticed that a lot of people were beginning to watch me. 

To an insecure 13 year old, this kind of attention was like feeding sugar cubes to a horse. I began showing off, zipping it ever  higher into the powder blue sky. 

I decided that if they wanted to see a show I was going to give them one. It was time for a long boomerang with a behind the back catch.  I wound up and hurled that Frisbee with all my might. It sailed over the surf, high, high in the air, until its momentum stalled, and as it began to return to me, the worst possible thing happened.  The gentle beach breeze suddenly gusted stiffly, causing the Frisbee to gain altitude and speed.  

“Oh no!”, I thought, and I began to run. A rogue missile was headed toward Earth. I had to intercept the runaway disk before it hit someone.  I looked over my shoulder to try to make a catch. No chance - it was at least 10 feet over my head. It whizzed past me, then I turned and heard the sound.

 

“Kthunk!”  

A young woman was trying to stand up when my Master Frisbee hit her squarely in the back of her head. Her feet went out from under her and she  face planted in the sand.  Oddjob would’ve been proud. If it was the NFL the refs would’ve called targeting.

Honestly, it would’ve been hilarious if I hadn’t been terrified.  The young lady had a boyfriend who was none too happy at what he had just witnessed. I feared that the pain she felt was nothing compared to the pain I was about to feel.  I could imagine my face on the panel of a milk carton. 

Fortunately, this young man knew he couldn’t beat up a little kid.  Especially one who was running toward them yelling,” I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

That didn’t stop both of them from giving me icy stares of death - especially the young lady who was wiping sand off her face and rubbing the back of her head. I’m sure she felt like Bruce Lee had hammered her with a roundhouse kick. 

I continued with my apologies, snatched up my disc, and got out of there. For the next couple of days, the Frisbee stayed in the room and I stayed in the hotel pool instead of on the beach.   

After all, that couple could’ve known a young man named Alexander Shannarah. 

Joe Hobby is a comedian from  Alabama who wrote for Jay Leno for many years. 

Find more of Joe’s stories on his blog: https://mylifeasahobby.blogspot.com/?m=1. Also, follow him on Facebook at: Joe Hobby Comedian- Writer