“I’m so sorry,” he apologized over and over again like he had just ran over an adorable puppy. “Did I hurt you? Is there a bruise? Do you want some ice? I am so, so sorry.”

He hit me in the back of the leg with a frisbee. So what. After playing ultimate frisbee for two years I’ve become accustomed to a 175-gram plastic disc hitting me. Bruises constantly cover my forearms, wrists and hands. I even got a minor concussion during one game. A simple hit to the calf couldn’t do that much damage.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” he called after me as I already had my fingers curled around the edge of the disc in preparation to throw it back to him with a forehand throw. “You can just hand the frisbee over to Hunter and he’ll get it back to me.”

I rolled my eyes with so much disgust that they hurt. I am a female, not an incompetent, fragile China doll. He doesn’t have the right to automatically rule out the possibility of a girl throwing a frisbee successfully. At a loss of words, I did the only thing I could think of to express my frustration.

I tightened my grip on the disc and snapped my wrist as hard as I could. The frisbee sliced through the air as if it was on a mission and hit its target, the boy’s stomach. Bullseye. Sure it was an immature thing to do, but I felt as if I had just stood up for all the girls who had ever been counted out because of their gender. As I anticipated, his jaw dropped, and he was utterly shocked by the power and accuracy of the throw.

“That was amazing,” the other boy gasped.

“Yeah,” the patronizer agreed. “I had no idea you had that in you.”

Of course I have it in me. But that’s the thing. You never know what someone is capable of until you bother to find out. Just because someone looks like they fit into a specific stereotype due to their age, gender or race doesn’t make the stereotype true. Yes, I am a 17-year-old white girl but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to enjoy sports. Yes, I know that boys are typically better at sports but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t play. It’s 2014. We have an African-American president. We live in a country where 33 states have legalized gay marriage. We can find out any piece of information in the world by talking to an iPhone. So why are we still so hung up on these ridiculous gender role ideas that girls are frail, sandwich-making beings and guys are macho, sport-playing heros?

***

I stand on the goalline anticipating the pull, the signal for the next play to start. My teammates and I assess the seven Coppell players standing 70 yards across from us. Five boys, two girls. One less girl than we have on our line. I am picked to defend the extra guy.

Bring it on.

Coppell moves the disc halfway down the field before tossing a lofty throw. It hangs in the air with enough time to make a defensive play. It’s fair game. The guy and I jump, extending every muscle in our bodies to their maximum potential, both trying to ensure that we come down with possession. I feel the smooth rotating plastic hit my fingers and I clamp down around the rounded edge. The disc is mine.

From the sideline I hear cheers and praises from my teammates, while the Coppell captain reminds his players that “you can’t count out the girls.”