Spirit Foul

                         “If any player on the field is being overly aggressive
                            either verbally or physically, a ‘spirit foul’ may be
                                                 called on that player.” 

                                       Winnipeg Ultimate Frisbee League
                                              Rule Book: Amendment 4                                                                 

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What brings you in today?

          Well. My coach, my agent, my dad—they’re all freaking out. Last year I scored 40, third most in the WHL. Was a TSN-top-20-player-to-watch for the draft. Now it’s mid-November and I only got two goals, both empty netters. Coach pulled me off the power play. Last night I got 12 minutes of ice time. In the latest draft rankings, I’m out of the first round. I’m all messed up. Like mentally. Everyone says it’s the pressure, but I don’t know, I don’t think that’s it.

Go on.‍

          Back in June—I’m playing ultimate frisbee of all things—and early in the game, this Mennonite kid with blond dreadlocks and a patchy beard beat me deep for a touchdown—or whatever they call it—and acted like he’d just won the Super Bowl. I’ll admit it was a nice catch—guy laid out for it pretty good—but act like you’ve been there before. Don’t sprint across the field pointing at the guy who threw it to you and jump in his arms like a fucking soccer player. In the Dub you pull a stunt like that, you better have your head up the rest of the game is all I’m saying.  

Dub?‍

          WHL—the league I’m in. 

Go on.‍

          Next possession I had the frisbee and Dreads was right in my face yelling out stalls —steamboats in frisbee—like he was at a bike lane protest, but I kept composed. Saw Sarah open and threaded the needle. I broke for the endzone and Sarah put it up right between me and Dreads—a 50/50 play—so I bodied the guy a little and, boom. Touchdown. 

          Sarah was the only reason I was there. I hadn’t heard from her in the week leading up to the game, but she texted me saying they were short. I hadn’t played since gym class, but like, I’m in the Dub, how hard could it be? And maybe it would lead to something more. 

          Anyways, my smile faded when I saw Dreads in the grass holding his eye like it was a gunshot wound. He got up all gingerly. “I gotta call a foul there, my man,” he said.

          So I say, “You’re calling that?” 

          And he says he is and holds his hand out for the frisbee and says I need to watch my elbows. That somebody could get hurt. 

          So I said, “Thanks, Gandhi,” and dropped the fucking thing at his feet. Then I told him to rub some cannabis oil on his boo-boo—that might make him feel better. 

Okay.

          To my mind, if a guy wants to bitch his way to the W, fine by me, but that doesn’t mean I’ll bend over for him either, much as Dreads would have been into that.

          Game went on and a few plays later Sarah made a nice stop. She tossed it to me and I saw her go deep. But Dreads was screaming stalls in my face again.  

          Swear to God, all I did was give him a little push in the chest to create some space before throwing to Sarah in the endzone. And it worked. She caught it and gave me that good-throw point and I pointed back at her and winked. Beauty play, right? 

          Nope. Dreads just had to pipe up. Buddy calls a foul.

          So I run past him and laugh right in his face. Then I look to my teammates and point to Dreads with my thumb and say, “Every time we get a touchdown buddy’s got a call ready.”

          Dreads jogged over to Sarah, who’s team captain, and said something to her that I didn’t hear. 

          Now I didn’t like him in Sarah’s face like that, so naturally I went over there and told him if he’s got a problem with me he should deal with me. He kept his back turned, so I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Or were you hoping you wouldn’t have to deal with me?”

          He turned back to Sarah and I swear to God he said, “Spirit foul. That’s it. I’m calling it.”

          “What?” I said. I’m laughing at this point.

          “Spirit foul,” he said again, turning his back on me, which I’ve always fucking hated. Then he pointed and said, “Get to the sidelines.” 

          So I said, “What in the flying fuck is a spirit foul?” And then Sarah put her hand on my arm and was herding me to the sidelines. 

          Now, in the Dub, your teammate gets into it with someone, you have his back. Right and wrong don’t matter. Logo on the front of the jersey is more important than the name on the back, coaches are always saying. But here, people on my own team were telling me to shut up. To just go, already. So I let Sarah guide me. I thought maybe her hand on my arm was a good sign, but she wasn’t smiling, wouldn’t even look at me. More mixed signals.

Mixed signals?

          Yeah, like taking Dreads’ side even though she invited me there. Touching me like that even though she was acting all put out.

Go on.

          So I’m pacing the sideline still pretty fired up. Part of me wanted to screw off but they had already scored a couple touchdowns without me on the field and I’m a team player, so I bit the bullet. Shook Dreads’ hand. Said sorry for overreacting. He said it was cool. That he was happy for me to join in if I could respect the spirit of the game. Like what the actual fuck.

          You know, later on I looked up the definition online. Of spirit foul. I had to laugh. In the Dub, if you’re not being overly physically or verbally aggressive, your ass gets cold on the bench.

          Anyways, back on the field we’re calling matchups and I say I got Dreads and Sarah asks if that’s a good idea.

          “Forgive and forget,” I said. The golden rule or whatever and then she says in this kind of stuck up voice, “And his name’s Prairie.” Just like that. Like, if this guy’s actual name is Prairie, that’s hilarious, but I thought better of laughing at it because Sarah didn’t seem too happy with me and there were things I wanted happening later. Had been hoping would happen for a while.  

And then what happened?

          Well, later in the game, I’m still matched up with Dreads and it’s tied. Their frisbee, time winding down. So I lean over and whisper in his ear, “How’s your delicate little spirit doing, bud?” 

          “What?” he says.

          And I say it again, “How’s your delicate little spirit doing, bud.” But before I can finish, he takes off for the end zone and, like I said, buddy’s an okay athlete—wouldn’t last a millisecond in the Dub, mind you—but decent. And he got that step on me, but I was catching up, pretty much right with him, and the throw was just out of our reach and we both dove for it. Laid out pretty good. 

          Then I was kneeling in the grass and I saw him out of the corner of my eye, face-down beside  me. At first I thought he was milking it again, but then he wasn’t really moving. And I put my hand on his back. And he was still. Then he moved a bit, slowly got up and started walking to the sidelines. After a couple steps, his knees went wobbly and he face-planted. Everyone sprinted over, formed a circle around him. Sarah knelt beside him. 

What was that moment like for you?

          It pissed me off. To see her asking him what day it was and what he had for breakfast and everybody fawning over him.

          They ended up calling the game. No one would look at me. Not even Sarah. And she was my ride. She didn’t think it was a good idea for Dreads or Prairie or whatever to bike home so she told me to put his bike in her hatchback. Then she helped him into shotgun and I was stuck riding bitch. Whole drive was dead quiet and the last words I said to Sarah were “thanks for the ride” when we got to my parents’ place. 

Was he okay? The guy from the game?

          Far as I know he was fine, yeah.

What about Sarah?

          I tried getting in touch with her, but she didn’t return my texts. Blocked me on everything. 

How’d you take it?

          No sweat off my back, right? When you’re in the Dub, willing girls are never in short supply. 

          But, like, I don’t know why, but I couldn’t get over her. I went the rest of the summer without doing anything with anyone. She drove me nuts on the couple dates we had been on, too. Weekend before the game, we were at the BDI for ice cream and she spent the whole 25 minutes in line talking to this pizza-face she hadn’t seen since elementary school. Then gave me grief for being on my phone. But whatever reason, she’s on my mind all summer. 

          Then, end of the summer, last week of the offseason , I’m at the Black Rabbit with the boys. We’d come from a skating clinic and were quite a few deep when she and Dreads walked in, putting their bike helmets into their backpacks. He put his hand on the small of her back and they walked to a table by the window. She didn’t notice me in the corner.

          And I’m watching them, right. They’re holding hands and splitting a flight of those small hipster beers. She’s laughing at everything he says. Their food comes and I’m 90 percent sure Dreads ordered a goddamn veggie burger. 

          I watched them and kept drinking and when Dreads got up and went to the bathroom, which, at the Black Rabbit, is in the basement, I slammed my beer and followed him down. 

          I opened the door and waited for him to finish pissing. He zipped up and I stared him down as he stepped toward the sink to wash his hands. Buddy couldn’t even look me in the eye. 

          I said, “How’s your spirit doing, buddy? It all recovered?” 

          He put on this dumb look like he didn’t recognize me. Could be his bell got rung worse than I thought, but I swear I saw a little smirk curl at the corner of his mouth as he turned to pump the paper towel, ignoring me. So I asked louder. “I said how’s your fucking spirit doing, buddy?” 

          His shoulders tensed. The silence was long and heavy. I watched his back relax as he took a deep breath and tore the paper towel and dried his hands. He turned and looked at me and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t know what you’re expecting to get out of this,” he said, “but I’m going back up.” He started to move past me. It almost worked, but when I ask a question, I expect an answer. So I stepped in front of him, blocking the door. That calm cocky look faded as I stepped to him and he basically shit himself when I pushed him against the stall and told him to answer the fucking question. 

          But then someone walked in and I let him go and he slipped away. Left me looking at myself in the mirror for a while, wondering who the hell I even am before I go back upstairs.. 

          Back at the table, I watched him tell the story to Sarah. She put her hand over mouth like she couldn’t believe it. He laughed and shook his head. I saw him mimic me, like I’m some joke. He took a big breath and sat back in his chair. He wasn’t laughing earlier. 

          Then, and this is where it gets bad, he scans the restaurant and points me out to Sarah. Holy shit her face went stern. 

          I remember pulling my Wheat Kings hat low and slinking in my chair, but she was on her way over, full mini-beer in hand. 

          She didn’t say a word, emptied it into my face.

          The boys thought it was hilarious, obviously, and Sarah walked back to her table. Dreads looked as shocked as me. They grabbed their backpacks, paid at the bar, and left. 

          And my buddies are all razzing me and asking me about it, giving me shots in the arm, but I’m just like in a daze watching them through the big wall window. They unlocked their bikes and put their helmets on. It was sunset and he kissed her, a soft one on the nose, then on the lips. His head twisted because they were both wearing helmets. They smiled at each other and laughed one more time, got on their bikes and disappeared down.

          I snapped out of it and heard someone ask me, “What the fuck was that?”

          “Oh, you know…didn’t call back after a one-nighter,” and we all laughed and he called me a dirty dog and asked me how she was. 

          Now, if I’m being honest, I mean just between me and you, furthest we got was the night we met. We’d kissed at Green Room, but she had to go. I found her on Facebook. She wanted to go on a walk. Just a walk. But you know what, it was really nice. There were geese all along the river and I don’t know the last time I just walked with someone like that. And it wasn’t too hot. Just right, you know. And we talked about real stuff, you know. Turns out our grandmas both were sick. But still for some fucking reason, for some fucking reason, I laughed like I always do and was like, “Oh that bitch. Fucking forgettable, man.”

Have you seen her since?

          Well that’s kind of the reason I’m here. This past weekend, we’re playing Regina and there’s three minutes left in the third and we’re down by one and I get a cross-crease pass and half the net’s open. My whole life that’s an automatic goal, but last night I missed by so much the puck went over the glass. 

          On the bench, Coach is screaming in my ear asking what the fuck was wrong with me. I just looked at my skates. But here’s the thing, in the stands, behind the net, right before I shot, I thought I saw Sarah. It makes no fucking sense. She was on her phone and when I loaded up to shoot, I had this image of her texting Dreads about how bad I’d been playing. And as I skated back to the bench, I thought I saw her in a different spot in the crowd, laughing at me. 

          Then after the game, Coach was so mad. He picked up the garbage can and emptied it into my stall. He only does that when you really play like shit. And it never happened to me before. The room started closing in around me and then for some reason I’m crying into my hands. Through my tears I see Coach all red-faced pointing at me, screaming, “You know what your problem is? You’re too fucking fragile! You’re too fucking fragile! You’re too fucking fragile! You’re too fucking fragile!”

Are you okay?

          What? Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. Just sucks getting yelled at like that.

Then what?

          Eventually the assistants calmed him down. I sat there with a towel over my head until the room cleared out. I showered and went back to my billets. Then, yesterday morning, my agent and my dad said I’d be seeing you here today. Like to see if we could work through whatever’s fucking with my on-ice performance. So, like, yeah. Here I am. Can you help?

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