The Perfect Throw

It's an outside-in backhand. We've all been there. Before we even get to the disc, walking in the stack, we can hear our heart pumping full to burst with the sheer immensity of life. Teeth clench and muscles stretch and fire - the cut is on. Faking out, wildly, six steps in their immensity. Could it be? asks the defender; not a cut to the endzone! The world slows as the D stumbles haphazardly, staggering and lurching down the field while our legs on O like razors plough the ground. Like lightning, cleats dig deep into the ground. The earth becomes raw and bleeding with the severity of the change in direction - the defender now stalling, backpedaling, oh-so-slowly realising he has over-committed and now seeks far too late to reverse his direction.

But there's nothing he can do. We're already open.

Screaming for the disc now. Eye contact is made - the throw is completed for a ten yard gain. We take the three steps, establish a pivot and scan the field for an option. There - the world is quiet over the screams of our sidelines and we are filled with an unimaginable celerity. The mark stumbles towards you - stalling one stalling two - but what he doesn't see as you fake a low breakmark forehand lavishly - languidly, you have all the time in the world - is a deep threat, his defender face-marking him.

Again, our cunning ruse has broken the defender - his limbs too splayed and tangled over one another, desperately trying to stop the break throw - and a small smile creeps upon our face as we can feel something primeval: this is what all the practice has come to. We don't even think now, we react - the front-marked deep threat fakes to the back-left corner of the endzone. Knuckles clenched white-hot, one solitary finger curled around the rim for stability, our arm sighs softly through the wind for the backhand. Bang. There it is. Chest height. Slicing through the air. Will it land out? The front-marked cutter doubles back to the front-right corner, his eyes alight for the score. It won't land out. The slightest kiss of an outside-in curve as it spins and spins towards the score. Our sideline stands at attention, roaring, thrusting exclamation out into the cool air. The cutter now open - his defender moving in slow motion 'no!' - runs towards the disc, arm outstretched. The whole world waits on its knees.

The disc is dropped. Two hands, buddy.

T.