Wednesday, November 30, 2005
As you become more immersed in the global Ultimate culture, beyond high school, beyond your college team, and into the world of elite club Ultimate you begin to realize two things:
- You are continualy dating people within the community. Within your city, your region, your pool of eligible dates can be found in the database of the computers at 4730 Table Mesa Dr. (Suite J-200) in Boulder, CO.
- Your parter has hooked up or slept with at least one person at every tournament you attend.
A year or so ago Time published an article called "A Snapshot of Teen Sex." It graphically charts sexual trysts among students at an American high school. The map they present is mindblowing. Knowing my own history and the history of my exes, I have a pretty good idea of what my branch looks like, which scares the shit out of me. If you listen to the gossip of who's with who now from where you get the idea that had scientists chosen our community to study, the ensuing map would look like our neural pathways.
Or is it actually my cock? Sockeye's hubris came crashing down at nationals this year the only way it could have: in an orgy of poor throws, drops and wind undoubtedly whipped up by the Creator herself. I sat on the beach chairs outside the Surf and Racquetball around 3am while all around me players ran pell-mell trying to coordinate hook-ups and debauchery as the security cracked down. Seems around this time Colorado Co-ed teams were forever banning anyone Colorado from the site and one nameless ePig player was reenacting Fists of Fury in his suite and pulling fire alarms.
Only a female god could hand out justice so severly.
As Furious gathered round each other for a well deserved circle jerk, my mind drifted to saturday night of club championships one year prior.
It was then, during all this chaos, I ran into a lucid thought. I stood up, looked at the Canadian I was with, and proclaimed, "The thought of Sockeye winning the national championship makes me nauseous." I then face planted into the sand and released back into the wild ten car bombs. The next time I made a memory I was awake in bed, people were cleaning up, and a teammate was telling me to get my shit in order
so we could go watch finals.
I sat on the beach chairs outside the Surf and Racquetball around 3am while all around me players ran pell-mell trying to coordinate hook-ups and debauchery as the security cracked down. Seems around this time Colorado Co-ed teams were forever banning anyone Colorado from the site and one nameless ePig player was reenacting Fists of Fury in his suite and pulling fire alarms.
So now it was 2005, a year later, and in that time the sockeye sycophants had landed with the ferocity of a Texas neocon, proclaiming an end to ultimate as we know it and demanding monuments to several sockeye players be erected using UPA dues. So it was with some relief I saw Furious punctuate a volatile season where no one really believed in them with a win, and not too many points after the entire spectator sideline gave one particular Sockeye player and earful for a blantant cheating maneuver.