When your son, who hates everything, who even hates playing sports,
asks to play Ultimate Frisbee, you drive him—begrudgingly—to practice. The field is green, squelchy from morning rain. The sky like a Dutch cloud painting. When he begs you to stay and play, you learn the backhand, the forehand, and the hammer throw, you Throw-Before-You-Go, you Hot Box, and when your son laughs, and when your son scores, your heart frays and grows barbs, and you suffer from the pricks of the barbs inside the grotto of your body, because she played Ultimate Frisbee, she was a professional, and your husband rooted from her sideline—and rooted against you.
Photo Credit: Annalisa Antonini
I didn’t expect the betrayal; it washed over me suddenly, leaving me cold. Such powerful storytelling.
Wow. I felt those barbs. Every frickin’ one.