Listen up Flippies, this frisbee season has been long and hard for us. There were many points throughout where I felt like we were never going to come back from defeat, and there were many (three, to be exact) games where that came true. And sometimes, I admit, I didn’t play my best. As you, my dear readers, would know, for those performances my father would’ve shown me ye ol’ belt. However, for that last frisbee game, he would’ve hugged me and that would’ve fixed me.

If my father saw that game, he would’ve seen his little boy make him proud for the first time since the first-grade science fair where he got second place even though he really should’ve gotten first (Fuck you, Sofie Rodriguez, #neverforgetneverforgive). And if he saw that game, he would’ve hugged me. It would’ve been the first time we’ve touched since the obligatory birthday-hug on when I turned twelve, and that hug (I hope) would’ve fixed something inside both of us. To be more realistic, though, it probably would’ve been about as awkward as a talkative prostitute in a confessional booth with a priest who’s late to his Grindr date.

Anyway, Dad wasn’t actually there to watch the game. Kind of like how he wasn’t there to watch any of the other ones between ages 6 and 16. But it would’ve been nice. I would’ve teared up a bit, and he would’ve looked at me the way I always wanted him to. And God would’ve looked down and grinned upon us, and he would’ve said “let Flipside win the playoffs, and let them obliterate the one girl on the other team that was really annoying, and let them play with club members on the team, and let them have funding for next year, and let them paint the rock, and let there be more followers on the Instagram”. And the people would’ve rejoiced in the lord’s (Flippy’s) infinite mercy and cried out in joy.