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June 2008
No Guts No Glory

No Guts No Glory

Yoopers invented Guts Frisbee way back in 1958. Today folks are whipping the saucers at one another all over the world, but the game's U.P. DNA still guides the action.

Jun 10, 2008 Lynda Twardowski

(page 4 of 4)

Barb Thorton

Following the fervor of the 70's and 80's and a brief fizzle in the 90's, Guts is on fire again. And while the old guard tends the flame, it's the new guard who's lighting it up. On field one: Japanese teams Selfish and Katon (the undefeated Guts world champion team) are geared up with soccer shorts, compression shirts, wrist bands, leather gloves, cleats and their own portable scoreboard.

On field three: the winningest team in IFT history, the Cupola Bandits, facing off against last year's IFT champs, Lansing's Boomtown Saints, a crew of mostly neighbors and brothers assembled by dad Mark Banghart, 1976 IFT winner.

As a Bob Dylan tune whines from the cab of a 4x4 somebody has backed up to the fence, the Bandits stalk the field in torn sweats. One wears a knee brace; another, a beard. On the other side of the field, Boomtown's 24-year-old Mike Banghart--long, lean and with a notoriously lethal backhand--shouts to his teammates, "We have one game, one!" The boys nod, faces stoic. He raises his arm to signal the coming throw to the Bandits, then takes two steps back from the line, drops his glove, storms forward, spins and unleashes. The disc screams across the field, chopping air like playing cards in bicycle spokes. The Cupola guys contend it was a bad throw--vertical at the line. Debate ensues. The verdict: Good throw.

"That's why we finish the shot," barks Mike's dad, Mark. The boys grimace. When Boomtown's 24-year-old Ryan Scott readies to throw a few minutes later, Mark asks, "What's he throwing?" Backhand. Mark nods: "Good. Too much wind for his forehand. Backhand is a good choice." The disc wobbles--an easy catch. He asks what's Ryan's next throw. Backhand again. "No," Mark yells. "That is a mistake. He will flutter it."

Ryan launches the disc. It is backhand, and it is good. It sails through Cupola's wall. Boomtown takes the game, advances to battle the Florida-based Silverbacks, then falls apart. A bad throw. A missed catch. Another. Boomtown calls Mark to the line. The old pro swipes Silverback's next disc from the air like a trout does a passing fly, but by game's end, it isn't enough: the young guns are out.

Hours later, the sky has turned from blue to slate, the temperature plummets, and only two teams remain: the two Japanese teams, Selfish and Katon. It is unexpected, this turn of events. The final round of the 50th annual IFT, the U.P.-born Guts tourney at its mid-century, is empty of Yoopers. Of old guard. Of homegrown new.

The crowd, which only minutes ago chanted, "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" in the semi-final round between the Silverbacks and Selfish, huddles tight beneath picnic blankets, some grim, some stunned. The young men of Katon set down their jugs of green tea, flip their scoreboard to zero, then take the field. Their faces are focused, stony. Then, seconds before play begins, one player turns to the crowd, smiles and shouts the single American phrase that has proven most useful on this trip: "You betcha!"

The crowd goes wild. Everyone cheers, jumping up from their camp chairs to raise sloshing cups of beer to their newly adopted Japanese sons. Dusk is coming, but the people go on for minutes, hooting, hollering and howling at the darkening sky.

A new day for Guts is, once again, dawning.