Thursday, January 12, 2006


We arrived at the breakfast place where I shared my night’s tale with several other members of my team, and a few friends and former teammates who were wondering why I looked like I’d been deported. Matt Bruss was especially poignant in some of his remarks, but calmly broke the somber mood with his humor and feigned nescience. I set about looking at the other patrons in the diner, and realized half of the world’s top fifty Ultimate players were eating there at once. Had a terrorist at that moment decided it was a good place to bomb, the new best player in Ultimate would probably have been Adam Tarr, and the new dynasty Jawbone out of Ohio. It made me laugh a little to think of it, and that felt good.

I felt better after eating, human again, and decided to redirect my energy to a positive place, a familiar place, an effective place: the ownership of whomever might guard me in the day’s games...!

Oh yes! Lest we forget, after that night, there was still another day of Ultimate to be played. How I would find the emotional and physical strength to play it was beyond my ken, I only knew it had to be done.

We returned to the fields and the good news that we had a first round bye, and as time passed I became more alert and the events of last night, as best as I could remember them, were sinking in.

Our morning match-up was against CK, Cram, O’Brien, Enessa, et al. I remember playing well. Very well. I threw and scored a lot of points. I also remember tripping up with CK on double game point and not contesting the foul. And I remember his subsequent throw to Enessa for the game winner.

But all this is secondary, because not once during the entire game did I not remember my conversation outside the truck and the way we’d just stared at each other for an eternity before we spoke. Well, maybe once I stopped remembering it. I was about to score a goal at a critical moment on O’Brien. All Sebby needed to do was throw something, anything, into the corner of the endzone from two yards out. He could have tossed it like a shot-put. Anything but the floating, lazy scoober that hung for too long and came up too short so O’Brien ran in front and fell into the block. Then, for one moment, the bewilderment at the choice of throw gave me respite from my other preoccupations.

Our following game was against Hang Time from Texas, and despite the fact that I just love crushing real coed teams at tourneys just like this one, my heart wasn’t into it. In fact, no one’s was. Everyone stumbled from one point to another but no one had any pizzazz or fire. But near half, down a few, they started shitting on their own women, making tacky calls, and taking the game too seriously, and we called a time-out to remind ourselves that if we can extract no joy from beating down practicing coed teams, the terrorists have already won. We dropped some shock and awe on them in the second half and after shotgunning two red bulls I was ready to take names again. I lent myself entirely to the Dark Side and let my passions and emotions dictate my movement on the field and we ended up storming back and beating them by several points.

That sudden ejaculation of emotion exhausted, we slumped on the sidelines as a team and decided we’d had enough disc and elected to not play our next game, taking some sadistic pleasure from telling our opponents they could move on in our stead. I joined my Boulder brethren, smoked a load, and felt relaxed and unencumbered for the first time in days. We laughed, shared stoned stories from the weekend, then grabbed some snacks and moved to watch the semifinals games where the Vagabonds were owning Team USA.

The crowd began thirsting for the upset and soon every sick play by Aaron Richards, Leslie Calder, Keith Monahan, and Brian Snyder was rewarded with lusty cheers. Team USA, the soi-disant best team in the country, fell to a ringer team of Northwest players. Their disappointment was matched only by the Vagabonds’ exuberance. And the crowd’s guilty satisfaction. I had little interest in watching the finals because I was up to my crow in disc, so I made my way back to the tent to prepare my things and be ready for when my girlfriend would arrive and we would have an uncomfortable ride back to her Seattle apartment.

Gone were the goals and plans of a bittersweet but enjoyable week with her before our end. It was replaced, I could see in both our minds we were walking through scenarios in which we’d be out of each other’s hair as quickly as possible. However, my flight wasn’t for another 6 days, and although neither of us had any desire to spend it together, I had no desire to pay for the transfer fee to change my flight. I knew my patience outweighed her discomfort, however, so I merely waited until she offered to pay for the ticket’s fee, which she did. Considering the weekend’s events, I considered it a fair solatium. The drive home was full of quotable gems I’ll decline to share, but her piebald arguments seemed directed at being hurtful and irrelevant so as to make the separation that much more justified. I burked my comments, and let her try to shrive away her guilt as best she could. At some point I just stopped listening and started trying to take in everything that had happened.

The One They Call Wade offered his services and house as a place to crash for the night or week, and as touched as I was by the generosity, I just wanted to get home to Boulder, to lay down roots for the first time, to reach tabula rasa and look forward with promise. We arrived at her apartment and Moises Rifkin picked me up and took me to his new, empty apartment, where he provided me with a sleeping bag, pillow, thermarest, and a few kind words. He left, and I laid in the bag. It was the fourth of July, the fireworks overlooking the water began to explode, and I heard their thunder and muffled partying all around. I slowly dozed off, hoping to find in a dream the clarion answers that had eluded me all weekend.


Tarr said...

I shall walk around with my head held high for the rest of the day, knowing in my heart that I am the personification of damning with faint praise.

Ron said...

I can't believe you are writing about this, you are a fool.

Chris Morgan said...

The drive home was full of quotable gems I’ll decline to share, but her piebald arguments seemed directed at being hurtful and irrelevant so as to make the separation that much more justified. I burked my comments, and let her try to shrive away her guilt as best she could.

You think she was being hurtful when she talked to you one on one, but you try and make her look bad 6 months later on a blog about ultimate.

You are a giant pussy. It's not hard to see why she cheated on you.
In fact you are such a douche, it shouldn't even really count as cheating, she just went and found a real man.

Get back to talking about discs, you are really bad at talking about yourself.

Anonymous said...

Ron - so weird that you don't know how to spell your own last name.

Tarr said...

I thought the most impressive thing about that passage was that Hector managed to use "piebald", "burked" and "shrive" in rapid succession.

Cheating is when you hook up with other people behind the back of your significant other. What she did was not really behind his back. This is not the most mature way to effect the end of a relationship, but it is not cheating, as I see it.

Any intelligent reader will realize that the story is not the whole story. The ends of relationships are often ugly, and here we get to read about one. I like both of the principals in this tale, and I can honestly say that the story doesn't make me think any less of either. I'm certainly surprised that he's publicly sharing so many personal details, but I am enjoying the tale.

Anonymous said...

Blogs are meant to be writings about yourself for yourself and others if they are so inclined to read. Chris, you are an ass and a pussy for not letting him express himself. If I want to write about cheating with your g/f on a blog, I will.

If in fact this is all true, then cheaters deserve all the shit talk they get. I've done it before and had to deal with it. Deal.

parinella said...

So, was she having sex with the guy, or just making out?

I agree with the people who say that your writing this reflects badly on you as a person, not that I know you. But yet, it's strangely compelling.

sharky said...

i guess you only have to put the stove on 4 out of 5 to make the pot boil. these responses are sweet.

speaking of giant pussies...giant pussies with sharp shark teeth. du du... du du... du du.

james scott said...

Hector's writing is awesome. Call it foolish. Not many people could write as poignantly about the cheating/er experience.

Tarr said it -- this isn't the whole story.

Will he regret it?

Anonymous said...

Ron Kublanza said...

I can't believe you are writing about this, you are a fool.

Thu Jan 12, 12:26:32 PM

Apparently he can't spell his name in his email address Maybe he's not Ron. Maybe I'm Ron. Am I Ron?

Anonymous said...

you're not ron, you're just an asshole.

Hh said...

You'd think Tarr was talking about brackets, with how on point he is:
"This is not the most mature way to effect the end of a relationship, but it is not cheating, as I see it.

Any intelligent reader will realize that the story is not the whole story."
All three points are succinct and exact, and I agree wholeheartedly.

To sum up the rest, it looks like Parinella is typing his comment with one hand and Chris Morgan is beside himself with emotion. Also someone may or may not be Ron. Whatever.

In case some forgot or got confused, I will say again that I received uncensored permission to post this from her. Let me also say that she is one of the better people I've ever met and continue to hold her in high regard, a friend. She could dress like Boy George and openly bomb foreign contries and you still couldn't make her look bad.

One more piece: closure. Tomorrow. You choose to read or not. Enjoy your freedoms.

CJL said...

Again, well written Hector. I am surprised some folks feel it necessary to get all crude and negative and shit. I mean seriously, there is plenty to criticize, but hell, must you do it with a blade? They must be blog virgins. Shitting on other's blogs is bad karma. But, as you said: whatever.

It seems like there is a gap in the narrative during the finals. Apparently you weren't there, which is too bad. It was an awesome game with everyone on the Vagabond's side.

I imagine it was more than ennui and efficiency that drove you away from that game. I think it would add to the story to build up in that place. There is a good balance of action and internal narration in the story. It seems like the packing would be a powerful symbol for the weekend and was probably also the site of some long thoughts, feelings, insights.


Handy said...

He hasn't been making pot shot character judgments, mostly just talking about his own experience and how he perceived her actions. Add that up with the fact that
1)this is a blog
2)he got permission from her (whose name he has not mentioned and thus many people may not even know who it is although others certainly do)
3)the fact that a ton of people are reading this (I leave it as the last thing to read on ultimatetalk each night because I enjoy his writing so much)
and I say whatever to all of you haters. Have you ever read "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius?" Would you crap on David Eggers the same way? Would you hate on Catullus for his amazing poems about his lover (and ex-lover? I submit you would not.

dar. said...

over the course of lunch the other afternoon, the topic of this story came up and there was the idea that there may be some motive here...clever indeed. i wasn't sure i agreed with the suggestion of the idea, but i gave it some thought before dismissing it, though not entirely i suppose. i need closure.

a well spoken story full of potbreak and much loathing. were i to spend 5 days in your shoes hector (perhaps my own nex blog entry?), i wouldn't tell this story on any one of those days, but as it is, the keds on my feet are my own and i'm enjoying your writing.

i truly hope you're writing this to put one last bit of closure on the matter and as they say, move the fuck on, and not relying on some "poor hector" response echoing through the ultimate community.

A.A. Gill, who tells a damn good story, mentions the artist paul klee and his idea that the art of drawing is the art of omission, and i think your story holds that true -- what you're leaving out is just as crucical as what you're choosing to tell.

to you i say, "up top."

Idris said...

just want to apologize if my post on was out of line. i have enjoyed hector's story (haven't we all?)... it made for good conversation on tonight's podcast [coming soon] too.

keep it coming hector.

Anonymous said...

What about all the heartbreak Hector has caused? Are you going to write about that? Put yourself on the same cheating level?

Kyle said...

When Hector first showed me this story I thought it was a shameless, egotistical bit of exhibitionism and didn't read it (just skimmed to find my own name - I've got to make sure the "kyle" brand is strong).

Having seen the responses (and heard of the #'s reading it) I have come to realize you can only be an exhibitionist if there are also voyeurs.

Thank you Jim, Chris, Adam Tarr (superstar), Idaho, and all of you anonymouses out there for making this worthwhile and giving Hector's life meaning.

CJL said...

Oh shit, I wondered when that was coming.

Anonymous said...

" were i to spend five days in your shoes, i wouldn't tell this story on any one of them ". what?
what kind of pseudo-logical argument is this?
i hope it makes you feel better, because it certainly doesn't make any sense to anyone over the age of six who speaks english.