Late at night, Emily and I would cross the street from Winston over to Hooker Field as everyone was gathering. Young and fit and beautiful, everyone was converging for ultimate. We would run and run for hours under those dazzling lights. I don’t know if anyone was ever keeping score, but everyone was fiercely competitive, always vying to annihilate the randomly chosen opposing team.
Afterward, we’d talk about the gender politics of Frisbee, how we respected the men who would take a risk and throw to a woman. The Hyltons and Lydia were always the outstanding women on the field; the men trusted them. I was never remarkable, but I became somewhat dependable. I remember with great clarity the few glorious passes I threw. The surge of self-pride was something to reckon with. But it was always such an emotionally tense action, as a woman, to risk a play. If you messed up, even once, you might never get to touch the Frisbee again.