The Sewer Ate our Frisbee

To be fair, the Captain fed our frisbee to the sewer with a perfectly thrown but terribly aimed toss of his wrist. We all watched it go. It was as if time stood still and the disc headed for the exact center of the storm sewer drain at the end of our street.  

If you've ever played Air Hockey, you know the satisfaction of landing your shot with that super solid thunk, right? And when your opponent just stands there, hunched over, fingers clutching the striker that's no where close to where it needs to be to block your zinging, dead-on shot and you hit it and he/she stands there in shock, eyes wide, speechless, and you thrust your hands in the air in sweet, sweet victory?

This was not like that. 

It was kind of the opposite. Or maybe it was exactly like that with Ali and me playing the gobsmacked schmucks and the Captain dancing around with his hands in the air.

We've been diligent about staying safe during the pandemic. But there are only so many walks you can take in your own neighborhood before you get a little tired of the view. 

The frisbee has livened up the walk, put some more muscle activity in mine and generally been a super fun add to our family time. So to see that entertaining disc lofting inexorably closer and closer to the storm drain with Ali and me at least six feet from the center on either side and Jeff a good 30 feet from the point of origin, it was painful. As far apart as we were, there was no full-extension dive that was going to do anything but give us road rash.

The frisbee sailed into the center of the drain like it was magnetized. It clunked once, against the back and dropped with a clear plop into water below. Ali and I stared, horrified, into the abyss. Transfixed, we don't know if Jeff was doing a happy dance, but I'd bet a good portion of our savings that the Captain was celebrating. Even though, it must be said, his "perfect shot" completely missed both of his actual, intended targets.

If he didn't actually dance on the street, I'm sure 12-year-old Jeff (who, let's face it, is with us more often than not) was at least dancing in his head. Ali and I used the flashlight on my phone to see if there was a chance that we could reach the frisbee and perhaps keep it from clogging up the works.

"It hit water," she reported. "It's gone."

The good news/bad news report of that is that it won't, hopefully do too much damage to the drainage system, but it's gone for good. We'd scraped it up over the past few months, banging it into trees and cars and stop signs and the like. So maybe it saw its chance to escape and took it. Who can say?

When Ali went to Purdue last year, we didn't think to send her with dishes as she had a meal plan and would be eating in the various cafeterias all over campus. But of course, there were times when she had leftovers and needed a plate or a bowl. Her solution was to use a set of frisbees that she'd collected during club fairs and other events where organizations dole out swag like sunglasses and coozies and frisbees. 

"I guess we could use my frisbee dishes to play," she offered.

We sent her to the store instead, and she came back reporting that it was hard to locate, but she had found a replacement. We're not letting Jeff throw this one near street corners anymore.

And for you horror fans, no: there was no red balloon involved. That we know of ...