Quaffle and Contrast 

It’s been thirty-five years since I have been on the McMaster University campus. This day, it is the site of the 2019 Canadian National Quidditch Championships in which my younger son is playing, with the UofT Centaurs, so this day holds a trifecta of draws for me: I get to see my son, I get to learn about quidditch, and I have the opportunity to see how I feel about being back here. 


It is early spring, and the day, weather-wise, is one of my least favourite types. It is cold as ice–a hard cold that tastes of sidewalk and iron; clear and sunny, but with a wind hinting that winter can still step back in and get up your skirt in a heartbeat. I’d rather the snow. These high-pressure days, and all of this landscape bleakness–grey trees as yet unleafed, makes me nuts. Before leaving, I throw my warm winter jacket into the van and I am grateful of this when I arrive at the campus. I wear it all day, much of it with the hood up against the wind and then zipping and unzipping  the jacket part in response to the fickle temperature; when the wind dies, the sun is warm and calming, but when the wind rises, it is like the playground bully who pushes you off the swings. What a complete bastard. 



I arrive on campus and promptly lose my way. Nothing is familiar. If the expansive green lawns are still here, I don’t find them. All I see are buildings crammed in next to each other and more being built. I am mildly disappointed, but frankly, this feeling may be influenced by my relative indifference about my university years, threaded as they were with an unhelpful sense of bewilderment. I had not come anywhere close to figuring out myself or other people, and the experience here represented more of a holding pattern than anything serving to catapult me ahead in a direction. I was still reeling from my early years and still, to this day feel that I would have been farther ahead and better grounded if I had been raised by wolves. 



I find the pitch where my son is playing. His team, as most of them do, looks to be possibly a random selection of passengers on a bus. Attire for all teams today is a smart uniform, but often tweaked against this bitter cold with long johns, or some type of leggings, under shorts. There are all different body types which is part of the glory of quidditch–there are many different abilities required, plus, the general vibe is chill and inviting. I speak with one player who played in Australia, France, Switzerland and, I think Sweden. I mention this in case you foolishly surmise that the game is not popular.



Quidditch is a running game. Better put, it’s a fierce haul-ass, dodge-and-sprint game for most positions. There sit three hoops on standards at either end of the pitch. Players run with brooms between their legs–a standard length of plastic pipe I think, held in place with one hand.  The intent is to put the quaffle, a slightly underinflated ball close to volleyball-size, through any of the opposing team’s hoops to win ten points. Each team has a keeper and three chasers who are charged with running down the field, passing, dodging, weaving and being generally keen to accrue points. Their damnation comes repeatedly at the hand of one, or both of the opposing team’s two beaters who throw their bludgers at them. A  bludger is a softer, more rubbery ball similar in size to the quaffle. Once the player is hit, he or she (yes this is coed) must immediately disengage from play by putting their free hand in the air, dismount from their broom, run like hell to their end and touch a hoop before they can remount and run back into play. To be clear, a beater can hit a keeper or a chaser, but he can also hit an opposing beater who might be winding up to hit one of your chasers aiming to score. Anyone is fair game, and therein lies the strategy and the finesse; the flow can change in a blink. This is very much heads-up ball. 


There is more:


At the seventeen-minute mark, a player walks onto the field dressed in yellow. In any other sport, you might consider him an attention-seeking fan intent on disrupting the game in some way. You would be incorrect here. This jaune player, the only one not riding a broom, is the elusive snitch runner. He has a snitch tail–a yellow ball in a sack that resembles an unfortunate scrotum–hanging from the back of his shorts. The snitch runner belongs to no team, no land, no country.  He, or she, is, quick, stealthy, and/or inhumanly mighty. His task is to defend his snitch tail from being deftly plucked by either seeker from each team. While regular play is going on, these three players are lost in their own drama, scrutinized by their very own referee. Grabbing the snitch tail wins you thirty points for your team and typically ends the game. The overall scenario is like having a rugby-basketball-track meet on the field with a separate, exhausting  wrestling match thrown in. 



When I arrive at the pitch and began watching the game, I think the whole broom thing is goofy and makes players look silly. Within fifteen minutes, I don’t notice brooms any more. I am caught up in the strategy and how physically demanding the game is. Having the broom requirement is actually kinda neato because it forces players to use only one hand to manage the quaffle, the bludger, or any tackling they intend. This takes the very big, and the very strong down a notch and allows for anyone to flourish with speed and dexterity. There are turnovers, outs-of-bounds, and penalty cards¬–referees are serious and unforgiving about proper contact and behaviour: Absolutely no neck-or-above contact, or tackling from behind. Players can sub out.  No helmets, but mouth guards for all.



I am completely caught up in the action–holding my breath, leaping and cheering at a gain, or kicking the ground at a close throw. When this match is over, my son and I go into one of the main buildings to get something warm to drink, and I find a remarkable display of contrast laid out for me: Here in the expansive atrium of this building are close to three hundred young adult males seated around endless lines of computer consoles. They are players in a Mario Cart competition, and in my usual, slightly judgmental form, I am horrified. I immediately make grand, sweeping assumptions about each player’s poor diet, complete lack of exercise, linty hygiene and minimal social skills. I want to grab them all by a collective ear and drag them outside to the athletic fields to challenge a snitch.  You are invited to roll your eyes. To be truthful, I still have not played a proper video game. I know they are not the worst thing ever, but when I consider them along with the shock of meeting anyone who does not know how to throw a frisbee, I am certain of the apocalypse.  I know my assumptions are flawed, but the dissonance between the good quidditch, and the bad video game paradigms I find comical. Whoops, I did it again. I wish I was sorry. 



I leave before The Centaurs play their last match of the day, because I am frozen. They are going to be playing as the sun tags out leaving only the stadium lights for comfort. They are tired but clearly still having a blast and that’s the best. Mario Cart is wrapping up just in time for none of the pale players to have to see or name the sun, –but all of  the coffee places are closed. Maybe that’s what I get for being dismissive. That’s okay, I will survive. The day is a win: I am always happy when I’m hanging out with either of my two sons, so this is a delightful given. I discovered that quidditch is fun, fierce, and is a thrill to watch.  As far as being back on campus is concerned, I find that I have no strong emotions. It was a nebulous time and my studies kept me busy but ignited no passion or fire. Yes, I got a degree in English here, and yes, I am a writer, but my passion for words and the craft came not from the classroom, but from life events–the hardest ones. Was tuition a waste of time and money? I can’t answer that. Taking the money and traveling the world might have given me more spine and grounding, but I’m not sure that back then I had the courage for it. The wolves were no help. All we can do, I suppose, is keep our heads up wherever we are.