From Mike Schell
James,
I remember just a few months ago, on a wet spring Sunday on Jesus Green.
Our team had just scored, and the guy on our team who caught the disc
wanted to pull. But so did you. You head-locked him and grabbed part of
the disc. Neither of you would let go, and you became locked in mock
combat, frozen together like beetles. I snuck up from behind and grabbed
the disc clean away from both of you (I like to pull too). I clutched the
disc against my chest and ran. But you chased me down, grappled me, and
pulled me to the ground. I remained in control of the disc until you
pressed a ticklish spot in my ribs, and the disc dropped free. You got
your pull (as usual), but the disc was so tacoed that you shanked it
out-of-bounds.
The last time I saw you, less than a month ago, everything seemed normal.
I said something like, "Waz up, James, good too see you out here.
Everybody comes out of the woodwork when the weather's good in Cambridge.
Army treatin' you all right?" You said something like "How's the wife?
How do you say her name again? You ready to throw yet?" We exchanged
random trash talk; we threw our usual mixture of warm-up silly
throws - thumbers, knifers, upside-down backhands - with lots of equally
silly
behind-the-back catches. We sprinted out the line to start the game. Many
hucks and hammers were thrown, and you were at the beginning or the end of
most of them. If I could just huck it to you again. I promise that you
won't have to lay out to catch it.
Mike