A buzzer sounds. Sweat drips from a nose— a nose lower to the ground than all other noses on the court. Max Squatts, with his 5’6” frame, gave it all he had, but it just wasn’t enough. The Buzzer Beatniks, the clear underdogs of the Georgetown Intramural Basketball scene, have lost again— for the seventh week in a row.
“You’re off the team,” announces Coach Omar, who wants nothing more than to run a tight ship (but can’t due to his lack of a strong guard who can finish in the paint).
“But Coach, basketball is my only escape!” replies Squatts.
“Really? Sounds like you need a better escape,” concludes Omar, who walks away twirling his $5 Hobby Lobby whistle, knowing he just broke the poor boy’s heart. He feels guilty, but he tells himself it’s for the good of the team as a whole.
Flash forward to the spring CAB Fair, by which time everyone’s lofty goals have been dashed upon the rocks and standards have been lowered. Suddenly, the world is full of possibility again. “Maybe I do want to sing in an acapella group,” ponders Squatts, “or maybe the Caravel is for me!”
But Squatts doesn’t have to settle for either of those. He turns a corner, and what appears at first to be a plastic dinner plate calls to him: “Come to me, Squatty.”
Surrounded by a bunch of lanky dudes whose high school cross-country stats were mediocre at best (but better than their JV basketball metrics), the plastic disc shines like Jesus at the Last Supper.
“You ever thrown a frisbee?” asks the team captain, who refuses to go by anything other than his last name.
“Yeah, I did once. My math teacher always kept a frisbee on his desk, and he let us toss it around one day,” replies Squatts.
“Oh, I bet he did,” affirms Captain Lastname.
Squatts begins to explain, “See, I used to play intramural basketball, and-”
“You sound like a star already, kid. Welcome to the A-team,” interrupts Lastname.
“Your future awaits, buddy!” proclaims a post-baccalaureate senior not yet ready to give up his glory days, putting his arm around Squatts. “Also, did you know you can fit four-and-a-half beers in one of these discs?”
Finally, Squatts feels at home. Sure, he’ll go on to spend thousands of dollars traveling to tournaments the club sports advisory board can’t afford to fund, but at least he’ll feel the same rush of escapism that he did on the court.
