Frisbee Ball Rules Excerpt
It was a hot, stagnant summer morning. Reagan Davis, sitting on the third step of his Murphree E dorm entrance, lacing up his black Converse All-Stars, could already feel the moisture dripping from his every pore. The relentless heat and humidity were the culprits. The large quantity of beer he had consumed the night before while touring fraternity rush parties certainly wasn't helping matters.
Reagan squinted upward toward the bright blue sky. Damn! He had been hoping for at least a little cloud cover. Rising to his feet, he watched as two freshmen co-eds, standing in the center of the complex's courtyard, hoisted Old Glory up the flagpole to its flaccid terminus.
The scene, the setting, and his circumstances brought a broad smile to Reagan's face. It was bright and early on a Saturday morning. The year was 1973, and the Vietnam War had recently ended. The drinking age was eighteen, and Reagan was away from home for the first time in his life. Since arriving in Gainesville one week earlier, he hadn't seen a single schoolgirl wearing a bra, and that was all right with him.
He had an afternoon's worth of homework ahead of him. His classes were going to be tougher than he had expected. His head was throbbing, and his mouth was dry. He had already gone through most of his first month's allowance.
Despite it all, he had never been happier, and he couldn't seem to wipe the smile from his face. It was what he had been dreaming about for as long as he could remember. Life just might not get any better than this.
Reagan looked up one more time at the sky and swatted the sweat from his forehead. He turned, glancing back over his shoulder at the two girls, and then whispered under his breath, "This is going to be one hell of a hot run!"
Reagan chose the shade of the tunnel, which connected the five-hundred- plus student housing facility with the main body of the campus, to do his pre-run stretches. The corridor contained a water fountain, a garbage can, a bulletin board plastered with announcements, including one advertising next Friday night's Beatles Night at the Ratheskellar, and a mirror. Through the scratches on the mirror, including frat insignias, love messages, cuss words, and a brainstorm that simply read, "Ban the Bomb," the incoming freshman conducted a personal assessment.
Gazing past his six feet four inches, 185-pound frame, dark blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair hanging as long as his father would allow, his chiseled handsome face badly in need of a shave, and his bright smile, and tanned complexion, his stare came to rest, disappointedly, at his biceps.
* * *
Reagan's high school football coach, Coach Shanahan or Coach Shanny, as he was affectionately known, had broken the rules and allowed his "favorite second-stringer" to work out with the varsity team during the summer. And work out, Reagan had. Some days for two hours, he lifted weights and did push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. Coach Shanny had even speculated that if Reagan would have put as much effort into his conditioning during the previous two years, he might have been a starter. But being a starter was never Reagan's top priority.
Despite his somewhat inward personality, Reagan was very popular in high school, especially during his senior year. His good looks always managed to get him dates, oftentimes to the dismay of his more outgoing buddies.
But now he had a real reason to add bulk and definition. He had an overpowering desire to look his best. He'd gone from being a top-dog senior to a lowly freshman, "the freshman curse," and he fully understood that he would need every advantage to get what he so desperately wanted. And what he wanted, and what now was his number one priority, even if he wouldn't admit it openly, was . . . girls!
* * *
While taking a break from his pre-run routine, and after looking both ways and seeing no one, Reagan flexed first his right arm and then his left. Not bad! Certainly bigger than they had been, but not big enough, not for what he was up against. Earlier that morning, he had read about the college's gym in the school's student-run news publication, The Alligator, and had promised himself that he would find the weight room and do some lifting the following day.
He was finishing up his stretches when a tall, slender brunette with hair down to her waist and a perky bounce in her blouse walked by the entrance of the tunnel and glanced his way for just a split second. The look in her eyes, and the expression on her face, was one he was getting used to, but not one he enjoyed. It was the Oh, you're just a freshman look. Reagan Davis glanced one more time in the mirror, shook his head, reconfirmed his promise to himself, and then set out on his first run as a Florida Gator.
The run, which he had mapped out the night before, would cover about six miles. From the tunnel he headed down Fletcher Drive, took a right on Stadium Road, and then ran past Alligator Alley, a structure that housed both the basketball facilities, numerous classrooms, and, as it turned out, the gym.