War Story (sort of)

There I was, middle of Baghdad, middle of the night.

Minding my own business. Making the short walk along the roadway between FOB Union III and the Embassy Compound.

Suddenly, a black van comes screaming up next to me and screeches to a halt. A dude wearing a balaclava jumps out and butt-strokes me in the head with an AK-47, knocking me into the barrier next to the road.

Grabs me by the shirt and tries to drag me into the van. I know the bad guys are looking hard for hostages and that it never ends well, so I was hanging onto the barrier for dear life.

Frustrated, the dude grabs me by the boot and starts pulling, pulling, pulling my leg.


Just like I'm pulling yours.

The shiner and accompanying seven stitches are courtesy of a pickup game of Ultimate Frisbee. I haven't played the game in five or six years, but obviously it is just like riding a bike: it hurts when you crash.

I was hanging in pretty well with a group I was spotting about 20 years in terms of bodily wear and tear. Unfortunately only six showed up for this evening's game, so it was 3 on 3. That makes for too much field with too few bodies on it and it resulted in a lot more running around than I had hoped for.

But, as I said, I was holding my own. Until the bottom fell out. The field is a sports venue covered with artificial turf, a new and, it turns out, not particularly good experience for me. First thing I learn is that you don't dive for anything. I get a nice Susan B. Anthony coin-sized raspberry on my elbow as a not-so-gentle reminder about two minutes into this thing.

Next thing I learn is that you don't want to be in all that much of a hurry changing direction because there is no such thing as "pivot" on this turf. Any effort to do so becomes a"sprain" as your foot remains firmly planted while the rest of your leg and body are executing the hoped-for change in azimuth. This took all of maybe five minutes to experience.

Things went well for awhile after that as I just accepted that if the frisbee is a foot out of reach it will just have to remain so until it hits the ground. Or if the guy I'm covering makes a highlight-film move to put distance between us, hurrah for him and I 'll just hope they throw the damn disc over his head.

But sometimes you just get caught up in the moment and lose situational awareness when it's just you and him, running full tilt into the end zone to catch up with a throw that went long but is settling gently. The disc is all you see, focused on it like a Hellfire on Taliban. Knock it away and the other team is denied. Fail to knock it away and have to make the long walk to the other end of the field. Up we went, still on a dead run but each now hoping to defy gravity just a tad better than the other. I slapped the Frisbee, but he gripped it at the same moment. Gravity resumed its control, which is normally OK but it turns out some other forces were at work as well.

The other dude came down onto the field with the Frisbee in hand. I came down into a six-inch high curb that marks the end of the playing surface. Still having a fair amount of forward momentum, the curb stopped my foot while the rest of me was very much a body in motion. The planted foot became the pivot point around which the rest of me now wanted to turn, which translated into a big-time smackdown. My right hand, right shoulder, and right side of my head all hit the concrete in quick succession.

I got a ride in the ambulance, a crack team of military medical practitioners surrounded me like a scene out of M.A.S.H., and now Humpty Dumpty is together again. Most excitement I've had in five months, and quite enough, thank you.

Doc says I should be ready to go again in two weeks. We'll see how long these lessons stay learned.