Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

Frisbee Champs

The first Friday of every month in Public Speaking class was Expert Day. Mrs. G. had an expert address the class on his or her field. They were usually the best-attended classes of the year.

Several members of the class were chosen at the beginning of the year to assist Mrs. G. in talent coordination for Expert Day. They had sent letters to everyone—to Ted Nugent and Henry Kissinger. To Jack Nicholson and Pete Townshend. From Bo Derek to G. Gordon Liddy. To Budweiser and the FBI. They even sent a letter to Charles Manson, just to see if he’d write back. (He did—saying to invite him again when he was due for parole, in 470 years.)

Once a demolition chief showed up on Expert Day. A meek-looking man in an old brown suit, he calmly showed the class how to make an explodable bomb out of household materials. Another time two members of the Gay Liberation Front showed up and explained the homosexual act in great detail.

“Now boys,” said Mrs. G. cheerfully. “We didn’t send out slips to the parents on you two, so let’s clean it up a little.”

One day a letter came to the speech class. It read:

A call was put through to Rick Slutzah at Frisbee headquarters. No, it wasn’t a college, the Expert Day coordinators told him. It was a high school. No problem, said Mr. Slutzah. Wham-O was happy to accommodate their interest. The date was set for the twentieth, fourth period, at 11:20. The two champions would be there, said Mr. Slutzah. They always arrived one-half hour ahead of presentation time.

By the end of third period on the twentieth, Mrs. G.’s room was packed with sun-bleached surfers. Kids who hadn’t been around Ridgemont since the first week of school. It was as if they had traveled across the burning desert to lay a wreath at the foot of the demigod. They were in Mrs. G.’s class to pay homage to a hero. Here was someone who had beaten the game. Here were guys paid to travel around and throw a Frisbee around. It was inspiring, man.

At twenty minutes after eleven, a white El Camino pickup screeched into the Ridgemont parking lot. Two men leaped out like a couple of SWAT team members. The hall monitor brought them into the room filled with admirers.

“Introduce yourself, boys,” said Mrs. G., “and I won’t write you up for being tardy.”

It was a typical teacher’s joke, the kind anybody with a heart at least gave a courtesy laugh to. But the Frisbee champs did not. They stood there, humorless, looking like Laurel and Hardy after a few years under a sunlamp. They were holding bulky white plastic sacks.

“Uh, listen,” said the taller of the two Frisbee champs. He spoke in a bewildered voice. “We thought this was a college.”

Mrs. George spoke up. “We cleared all this with Mr. Slutzah, who said he’d tell you. He said there would be no complication.”

The two champs looked at each other.

“Slutzah,” said the taller Frisbee champ.

“Hey, we’re happy to be here,” said the shorter, swarthier of the two. He knew how to switch it on. “Hi everyone! I’m Kent Vanderjack. This is my brother Todd. As Senior World Class Frisbee Disc Champions we have a special slogan. His is Let It Fly, and mine is Fly with Me.”

Then Kent Vanderjack’s brother Todd reached into his white sack and began flicking three-inch mini-Frisbees to kids in the audience. Each Frisbee was meticulously inscribed with a champ’s name and motto. They were Frisbee business cards! The surfers sat up in their seats.

“Hey, how do you get to be a champ, man?”

“Well,” said Todd, “I broke the twenty-four-hour disc-throwing record in Australia. I threw in Europe for a while, then came back here for the season a few years ago and just stayed. I won eighteen out of the twenty-one qualifying tournaments leading up to the big Disc Championship at the Rose Bowl every August.”

“Who won it last year?”

“Some little wimp from Virginia,” said Kent Vanderjack.

“How much is the prize?”

“Four thousand dollars.”

“How much do you guys make a year?”

“About $15,000,” said Todd.

There were whistles among the enraptured surfers.

“And Wham-O got hold of us and hired us.”

The room was enthralled.

“How much do you practice?”

“Between four and eight hours a day,” said Todd.

“But it’s not all hanging out in the sun,” said Kent. “It’s a lot of hard work. When you’re throwing the disc, your hobby is your job. And that takes a lot of effort.”

“How long have you been throwing Frisbees?” came another question.

“Well, I’ve been throwing the disc for fifteen years. Todd for twelve.”

The message was clear—it’s called a disc—and thereafter no surfer at Ridgemont, no real hardcore, ever called it a Frisbee again.

It was a brief presentation, this World Class Demonstration, and the two champs ran through it by rote. They described the six basic disc holds, offered an explanation of how to join the International Frisbee Association as a lifetime member, and gave a brief “health report” on how disc throwing improved hand-to-eye coordination.

They made a dramatic exit, with upraised fists and a cry of “Circulate the disc!”

It was a great effect, ruined only slightly by the fact that the two champs then hung around the rest of the lunch period, on lunch court, and collected phone numbers from the very girls who had been so unattainable all year long to the surfers who idolized them.