Butt-Fucking Quitters Pt. 2

It's hard for me to understand those that quit a team ever, but the ones that slay me are those that quit a team that makes cuts. After cuts.

That is some fucked up shit. It's like you sodomized every one who was cut and afterward blew smoke in their face and told them about your myriad STD's. We had a teammate do that this season, six weeks before the end of the season. Sectionals and regionals were within an hour's driving distance. Apparently the workload became too heavy. I'd buy that except...

Our practice schedule was finalized in April and this was mid-September. I wasn't angry at my teammate for me as much as for those that busted ass and cash to try out for the team and were cut. I reckoned if I was them I'd be pretty mad. My teammate I just sorta felt sorry for because, as great a person as they are, they just didn't get it. Once they got it, but along the way they forgot what it's really about.

Butt-fucking quitters

Every college team has them. You know them, they're those men and women who every year, as school starts in the fall, come out to play Ultimate as excited as the Olson twins around a coke line. Some are obvious - the fucker who's signed up for everything from a business frat to the glee club, like it's still high school and you're staying after for Spanish Club. But others are unexpected, perhaps even a little heartbreaking - finally an athlete comes into the program and effortlessly picks up everything thrown their way, then suddenly decide they're joining Club Rugby or training for a supermarathon.

Regardless of which type they are, they have one thing in common - you never quite forgave them for quitting. You see them in the spring semester and think of them for the first time in months, then find yourself cursing them for abandoning your obviously superior lifestyle and pitying them because they're missing out on the best thing about college and they don't have a clue.

You are separated from me by two degrees of fucking

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.

I have in my hand a list of names...

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.