Memories of Frisbee on the Playround at Greenacres Elementary School
Ah, those golden afternoons—how they stretched on forever, or so it seemed. I remember the way the grass felt beneath my sneakers, the scent of damp earth rising up whenever we stumbled or dove for a catch. The school playground, flat and inviting, belonged to us. Just two boys and a battered white Frisbee, scuffed along the edges from hours of play. We were always in sync, you and I. You had a way of launching the Frisbee so smoothly, so precisely, that it hung in the air like it was reluctant to fall. I'd sprint, arms outstretched, tracking its lazy arc against the sky, feeling the wind rush past my ears. Then— snap —the plastic would meet my fingertips, a perfect catch. And you'd cheer like I'd just won some great victory, even though we both knew it wasn't about winning. It was about the rhythm, the dance of it, the joy of motion. ...