No Princeton frogger

I understand. Really, I do. It's spring, and you want to rejoice in the glorious sunshine and be outside as much as possible. If you're not reading or building a hearty base for future skin cancer, chances are you're doing something sporty involving a Frisbee or ball and some sort of triangular formation on a main quad. As a former softball player, I totally understand the joys of playing catch, and I'm sure kicking around a soccer ball has equal fun value. There does, however, come a point when you must remind yourself that you are, after all, not on a playing field, and there are innocent people walking past.

Innocent and in most cases, overly trusting.

In the beginning of the year, a friend told me of her embarrassment when a Frisbee smacked her on the back as she was walking to class. I remember laughing. Little did I know I'd find myself in similar situations as soon as the weather warmed up again.

I'd say I'm a pretty careful walker; I keep my head up, listen for bike wheels whirring behind me, look both ways before crossing streets. So before cutting across the Wilson quad, I stopped to let a kid kick a soccer ball to the other side. Now you'd think that after making eye contact with each of the people involved in his soccer triangle and making sure they all knew I was there and wanted to cross, they'd then hold the ball until I had safely made it to the other side. I was under the impression that I had gotten everything but the "go ahead" hand-wave drivers give you while you stand in crosswalks.

But no. Just after I had made it to the middle of the quad one of the kids decides, perhaps out of some desire to demonstrate his nasty skill and perfect aim, to give the ball a swift, full-on punt. Of course, he did not have nasty skill or perfect aim, and the ball, which at that point had become airborne, proceeded to bean me in the arm. I must have looked like an oblivious spaz, and I was a little embarrassed, I'm not gonna lie, both for the kicker and for myself, but I was able to laugh it off. I mean, the kid yelled "fore." After the ball hit me.

I wasn't so cheerful about my second pelting. Walking out of my building with the same friend whose story I had laughed at, I noticed four guys tossing around a Frisbee in the quad directly in front of us. This wasn't any ordinary Frisbee, but some weird, very thin ring, the edges of which, I would find out personally, were not so much rounded as razor-like. Ironically enough, just as we spotted the group she turned to me and said, "I'm so scared to walk near people with Frisbees now," and before I could reply the discus of death ricocheted off the wall beside me and knocked me right in the jugular. There was no "Hey, sorry about that," or "Oh, man are you ok?" All I got was a manly, grunted, "Yo, little help?"

You want to whack me with a surprisingly hard piece of plastic and then ask me to toss it back to you? Needless to say, I was not a happy camper.

I don't, by any means, want people stop their sunny-day fun or wait until there's no one else around to have it. If people walking by can be aware, though, the people playing should be too. You wouldn't throw the ball to home if the catcher wasn't looking or pass a puck to an oblivious teammate. So all I'm saying is, don't make innocent passersby feel like they're in some freakish, Princetonian version of Frogger. Laura Berner is a freshman from Rye, N.Y. You can reach her at lberner@princeton.edu.