Gym class in elementary school was a special place, where early talent and a love of sports blossomed for many students.
In fifth grade I had my frisbee confiscated. Being both a danger to myself and anyone within the same football field as me, I was generally shuffled behind the metal backstop when we were playing catch for the baseball unit. A shame to my entire baseball-playing family, the frequency at which I caught fly balls was calculated in times per month instead of times per game. I was not an intentionally malicious child, bent on harming those around me with throwable objects, and I was not uninterested in baseball. Sometimes the things I threw just didn’t go where they were supposed to, and the things that were thrown at me didn’t go where I thought they were going.
Sadly my tale does not have a happy ending. I did not get glasses and realize I was a baseball star (in fact, glasses made my throw worse somehow), and I have not been signed to the Mets. In fact, I would most likely be kicked off of any bowling team within a single game, perhaps a single throw even. But I do have a group of friends who play ultimate frisbee with me in the summer, trusting me with that sweet, forbidden frisbee. I have only made one person cry so far, which I think is a win for us all in the end.
