Ultimate

Ultimate Dave — he gave himself that name — is bragging again. “I’m the king of ultimate frisbee,” he proclaims, holding up his beer to toast himself.

He’s good, I have to admit it. The best in our group for sure. Some very proud people play in our gang every Sunday on the UH campus. Some of them have trouble admitting how good Dave is. But we all know, there’s no one better among us.

I toast, too. Ikaika looks away, not sipping. I think sometimes he’d like to pop Dave for mouthing off. In private he’s said things like, “Does that guy have any real friends? I mean besides us? And we’d barely qualify. He’s got a motor mouth and an ego the size of Diamond Head. Someday he’s going to piss off someone enough to punch him out.”

Ikaika, I believe, is just the kind of person who might do that. It doesn’t help that he’s always on the other team because he doesn’t want to be on Dave’s team. But like all of us, he still has to listen to Dave all day long running down the competition. I’m on Dave’s team. I, well, put up with him. That’s not a nice way to say it, I realize. But that’s the truth. I wonder if he knows that. It seems to me that he’s oblivious about a lot of things. Such as how his constant chatter bothers people. Quite a few of our friends have stopped coming to play because they’re fed up with him.

It’s not that he doesn’t bother me. It’s that I have a higher tolerance for the way he behaves.

He and I met in a Shakespeare class. You may guess that he was the number one class participant. At first, the professor appreciated his comments. But as the semester progressed, and I mean not too far along, Dave’s input began to be less about whatever play we were reading, and more about what Dave thought about Dave as Shakespeare related to him. Which is his way in everything.

You can’t get into a conversation with him without him turning it into something about him. About what he thinks. About what he likes. About how he has expertise in whatever you want to talk about. I can see why he annoys people.

One time, in the middle of our Sunday ultimate game, Kathy announced that she had to go. I thought this was odd, and I could see she was upset. I followed her to where her car was parked by Hawai’i Hall.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Dave. That guy. Can’t he ever shut up? I’m sick of listening to him. I’ve had it, Lanning, I’m not coming back. How do you put up with it?”

She slammed her car door and burned rubber.

How did I put up with it? I can’t tell you how many people who’ve left our circle have asked me that. Dave, he’s the kind of guy who does need friends. And even if I’m the last one he ever has, I’m going to be there for him. No matter how much he may irritate me.

Now Dave’s talking about how he’s pretty sure he had the lowest score ever. For him, and for our group. That’s probably true, and we all know it.

Ikaika puts his bottle down so hard, I think he’s going to break it. Everyone goes quiet. Except Dave. It’s as if he didn’t hear it.

“Eh!” says Ikaika. “Eh, Dave!”

Dave slows his monologue, turning his attention to Ikaika.

“Yeah?”

“I gotta say this, and,” Ikaika makes a sweeping gesture to include all the whole group, “I’m pretty sure I’m speaking for everyone here. Dude, can you please just shut up for a little while?”

We all look at Dave.

“Shut up? Why shut up? What am I saying that’s bothering you?”

This feels like a verbal suicide note to me. Dave’s a little on the chubby side and about 5’8′ or so. Ikaika’s a rabid weight lifter, is built so you’d know it, and is maybe 6’1″.

Ikaika stands up. “Brah, everything you say bothers me. Don’t you ever know when to shut up and maybe listen to other people? Why are you always talking about yourself? It’s like you’re the only person in the universe.”

Dave stares at him but it doesn’t look like he fully comprehends the situation. Ikaika takes a few determined steps in Dave’s direction.

“What are you talking about, Ikaika? All I do is listen to everyone all the time. Ask anybody.”

Heads go down all around the table.

Ikaika snorts. “Yeah right. You are too much, dude. Well, I hope you’re listening to me right now. You better change the way you act when you’re playing with us, Dave, or,” he walks right up to Dave, “you’re going to regret it.”

Dave, not making a smart move, stands up to face Ikaika. “What do you mean, regret it?”

Ikaika shakes his head. The tension is about as electric as it can get. I’m wondering if I should try to intervene before there’s any bloodshed. It looks like no one else is willing to do it. I begin to rise.

“What are you going to do?” Dave asks. “Like punch me or something?”

He doesn’t sound like he’s challenging Ikaika when he says that, and it doesn’t sound as if he’s afraid of it happening. It’s more like a genuine question he’s posing. Like he wants to know yes or no?

Ikaika shakes his head again. “Dave, if I were to hit you, I’d hurt you badly, brah. I don’t do that to people. I just want to make a solid point with you. It’s as if no one has ever told you that you have the social skills of a rock. I’d say you were on the spectrum, but I’m no expert on autism. Whatever, brah, you gotta change your ways or you will end up getting hurt, physically or emotionally. And in the end, you keep going the way you’re going, you’ll be all alone. All by yourself. You’ll be listening to you talking, and you’ll be the only one in the room.”

And with that Ikaika turns and walks away. “I’m out guys. No more ultimate for me. Everybody take care.”

Everyone else gets up. I can tell by the halfhearted way they say their goodbyes that this will be the last ultimate frisbee Sunday.

I’m still sitting. Dave slumps down, hands to his head and his elbows on the table. “Lanning,” he mumbles, “is he right? Am I some kind of an egomaniac jerk or something?”

I look at him. He seems a whole lot smaller than he was a moment ago, but I still recognize him.

“Eh,” I say, “let’s have another beer and recap the game.”