Sporty.

It's Saturday night--Boston's bars are packed, the police are out, and the subway smells like cheap vodka. But if you happened to pass the huge, softly lit Harvard Medical School quad between ten thirty and midnight, you would have seen eighteen or twenty totally sober twentysomethings engaged in a life-or-death game of Ultimate Frisbee. You can't help but love my singles ward.

It's strange for me to participate in such an athletic activity; since my early teens self-consciousness has gotten the better of me and I've always strategically not shown up, faked a phone call, or made some other excuse to leave before people start running around. Aside from a brief stint on a high school softball team, I've generally left sports to people like my brothers--wiry, muscular, confident, speedy people who aren't afraid to dive for the ball or smash into each other. But tonight I chose to play. I felt comfortable enough with the people and the setting to put myself out on a limb. Yes, it was embarrassing. I'm woefully inexperienced. But I can run fast, and I have a good eye for defense. With a little practice, I think I'll be all right. And that, for me, is saying something.