My hands were arthritic from the cold while I ran down one of Guilford’s practice fields after a Frisbee, of all things. The disc and I seemed to crash against a wall of cold air as we closed in on our rendezvous. I went for the catch, only it slashed my knuckles like a whip. Keeling over, out of breath while the little UFO crashed, I tried to figure out what was so hard about catching a disc.
Then senior captain Molly Finch yelled “Sprint!” The rule is that a dropped frisbee meanssprints for the culprit.
It was probably then that I realized that Guilford’s “Biohazard” ultimate frisbee team was no joke.
My first impression: a deceptive game.
The players defied my stereotypes. There were no shoeless, red-eyed, Jerry Garcia t-shirt havin’ lollygaggers. Nope. I didn’t experience any soul-seekers- living in the metaphorical conceptualization of “to be” – just some dirty athletes.
First-year player Sarah Stangle told me about a diving interception she had earlier in the season. She recalled it with the eminence of “slow-motion.” With three opposing players sliding on top of her, mud spewing in a wake of limbs, she held on.
I actually learned that holding onto the frisbee is only the second most important part of the sport. The first is the ethics of the game.
“The big tenet of ultimate is spirit,” said captain Nick Mozer, recovering from a broken collar bone. “The game teaches people enjoyment, and especially respect for rivals.”
In some ways, ultimate is ultra community-oriented-taking leaps in promoting sportsmanship.
Respect for the other team is actually the incentive for a fair game. Instead of having referees, players officiate their own game.
Regimented post-game handshakes are no longer needed.
During my two-hour practice with Biohazard I was challenged- grappling with concepts and flying objects, indeed. The team demonstrated an abundance of solid friendships.
Biohazard practiced like they were in a Dallas Cowboy training camp, but off the field they got along like brother and sister.
They’re an enigma.
“We don’t think, we just throw the disc,” smiled the freshman player Tyler Lipton, sporting grass- and dirt-peppered elbows.
Eleven of Biohazard’s 17 players are underclassmen. Surprisingly, many of them wield varsity-sport speed.
First-year James Williamson left me hacking up gunk after giving me the slip on a long throw. Williamson and other players benefit from their speed and endurance from their dedication during their minimal off-season.
“The winter season is when you can really see who the Frisbee addicts are,” said Williamson, starry-eyed.
Even for a bumbling rookie, Biohazzard knew how to make the game fun for a beginner.
“We don’t want people to be afraid to come out because they are intimidated by a sport or because they’ve never thrown a disc,” said Mozer.
Like other club sports, ultimate is a commitment off the field as well.
“We do a lot of team bonding like rugby,” said junior Gillian Galdy. “Except nobody’s in your face.”
The players have traditionally celebrated their hard work by partying with the other teams after games and tournaments. Galdy recalled a shindig with the University of North Carolina Greensboro team after coming in second place at a tournament last January.
Arch rivals or not, everyone partied.
There have been instances where Biohazard played teams who lacked sportsmanship and respect- the two holy grails of ultimate frisbee.
Junior Ben Macdonald felt strongly about one team that seemed ultra-proud.
“They were s*** talkers,” said Macdonald, referring to Tennessee. “They beat us and then were talking down to our team afterwards.”
“Aggression and manipulation!” said Senior Julia Kartman as she pushed her way into the conversation.
The team prefers to remain positive.
First-year Caroline Frantz told me about scoring her first goal after only playing the sport for two months.
And considering the team’s young players, there is room to grow.
This year they’re 6-7. Biohazzard has just come back from the Hidetide Tournament off the coast of Savannah, Ga., where they made it to the quarterfinals.