As a fledgling Frisbee player in the first throes of my addiction some 15 years ago, I used to dream about being a pro. What could be better than getting paid to play — something I’d do anyway, something I spent plenty of money to do? But there was no pro Frisbee, and it would take a miracle for there to be pro Frisbee.
I had no way of knowing that Major League Ultimate would be founded in 2012, playing their inaugural season in 2013. So I got as serious as I could. I played five years of college disc, traveling to tournaments in all corners of the country. My team did well (better after I graduated) and I moved on to the post-college amateur scene (what we call club) playing for teams in several different cities.
It’s called ultimate because Frisbee is a trademarked name. It’s a team sport, seven versus seven, played on a field, scores occur in end zones. We wear cleats and uniforms not unlike soccer, and it’s athletically driven with a focus on speed and throws. We travel cross-country to tournaments, playing up to eight games in a weekend because that’s the only way to make it cost-effective. Game play and strategy are influenced by basketball, soccer, and football.
When Major League Ultimate founded a team in San Francisco called the Dogfish, I tried out. It’s hard for me to admit I wasn’t good enough, but I didn’t make the roster. San Francisco is the most competitive city for Frisbee anywhere; the club team here, Revolver, has won three national championships and two world championships since 2010. In another city, or when I was younger, I’d have been a pro.
Then, in 2014, something interesting happened. The competing league — the American Ultimate Disc League — came in and started two teams in the bay area, the San Jose Spiders and the San Francisco Flamethrowers. Talent was diluted, and I tried out again for the Dogfish, despite a back injury that had me sidelined much of the previous year. I made the roster.
We got jerseys with our names on them, black and grey with orange highlights and a shark logo arcing down and to the left (see top photo), and white away jerseys with navy numbers. We flew to Seattle, and played in front of hundreds — hundreds! — at the Seattle Rainmakers’ home stadium, repurposed for a day from its regular life as a high school football stadium. It rained, and it was windy — wind is devastating to all but the best throwers — and it was glorious. But we lost, in overtime.
It wasn’t my first time playing in front of a crowd, but they were loud, they were cheering against us. When I was on the sideline I noticed. On the field, they faded away.
“I think the pro leagues provide aspiring young players with a really good example to show their friends and family, something to say hey, this is real,” says James Yeager, my teammate, who is a Phys Ed teacher and did his dissertation on participatory recreational sports. We made the roster at the same time.
Like me, Yeager fell in love with the sport in high school: “It was just a trip to think that there was even organized teams that would travel and play each other for a weekend.”
Travel was easy, at least for us players. It was organized; we were all on the same flight. There was a coach bus waiting for us at the airport. It took us back to the hotel — a forgettable place in the city — and on Sunday, drove us across the border to meet the Vancouver Nighthawks, who subsequently demolished us. (Blame their fresh legs — they didn’t play on Saturday.)
OK, maybe a two-day trip with a cross-border bus ride and a return flight from a different city isn’t a big deal. But to us players, accustomed as we are to scrambling to find red-eyes, rental cars, packing eight or more smelly guys in a hotel room, this was … easy. Nice, even. We poured everything into this, for years. In college, between workouts, practices, and tournaments, I spent more time on Frisbee than on my classes — and maybe more money.
Unlike college, during the pro season — April to July — games come just once a week, or the occasional Saturday/Sunday doubleheader. Fewer games mean there’s more of a premium on explosiveness and speed over endurance. And it means older, broken players like me can string our careers out a little longer.
There’s a few minor changes to the rules and the fields, which are of dubious interest to anyone without a history in the sport. But one is worth mentioning: For the first time ever, Frisbee has refs. Decked out in orange, they watch us for travels, fouls, out of bounds, and more. Their presence — occasionally maligned by purists — keeps the game moving and (mostly) prevents disputes.
The leagues face a strange kind of conundrum: To be viable, they need to attract fans. Used to be, Frisbee fans came in two flavors — people who play Frisbee, and their parents. It’s tough to drum up that support, but the Dogfish’s general manager, Rusty May — who doesn’t come from a Frisbee background — has some ideas.
“Spreading the message of ultimate is what I fell in love with,” says May. “There’s 5 million active players in this country, which is a great audience, but there’s 350 million other people, who aren’t aware of who we are. That is the market I want to go after.
“When ultimate players get together, there’s this sense of shared community,” he says. Part of that comes from the tournament format — traveling together, partying together — and that’s something that is difficult to replicate in pro, with single games. However, from the players selected for the team to the fans we try to attract, his goal is to share that Frisbee community with the local community, through games and workshops and events and focusing on family. “It’s about finding a whole new community of young people who are interested in what this amazing sport can do.”
The 2015 season kicks off April 19. The Dogfish will play the Vancouver Nighthawks in Berkeley, California, and I will be on the sideline. After years of powering thorough my injury and paying for it in pain, painkillers, and doctor bills, I’m semi-retired, and acting as team manager.
It was a hard decision. When I described Frisbee as an addiction, I wasn’t being flip. I get depressed without it; I engage in activity that could legitimately be described as self-destructive. And stepping out on the field to compete with friends and rivals from different cities just feels good. Doing something — especially something competitive — that you are good at, makes you feel powerful, jubilant, nervous, aggressive, and strong, all at once. I’ve never experienced this anywhere else, and in the pro scene, the ante is upped still further — there are fans and spectators who expect your best.
Being able to play pro — in fact, just the existence of a pro league or two — gives us players something else, too. We’ve always struggled to feel legitimate, in a sport people think of as a hippie pastime or that thing you do with dogs. To say no, this is a competitive sport, and I get paid to do it, and it’s televised occasionally (or at least on YouTube), goes a long way toward legitimizing what we’ve put so much time and effort into. It’s still an ongoing battle.
All of us are still playing for the love, of course. It’s built out of a very strong community. Elements of what makes the game special still exist, despite the fear among haters that it will quickly become a win-at-all-costs mentality. Our coach established a culture that we did not cheat, nor use the refs to our advantage. He instituted a policy: If you think the ref made an erroneous call in your favor, place the disc on the ground and let the other team gain possession.
“I would do it for free,” says Yeager. “But I’d do a lot more if they paid me real money.” It’s a lot of work, he means. Staying fit, doing workouts, going to practice. Putting on a good show for fans. You want to be at your best when somebody’s watching. But we all have full-time jobs, too.
So we play pro Frisbee on the weekends, and in the off-season we travel to recreational tournaments or competitive club tournaments. I’m preparing, hoping, that I’ll be able to once again indulge my addiction. Everyone’s career ends at some point, I recognize that, but I’m doing everything I can — up to and maybe including surgery—to get healthy, so I can play again in 2016.
All photos: Scobel Wiggins for UltiPhotos