Friday, January 13, 2006
PROLOGUE | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5
I have a routine when flying. I’m the last to board, I ignore the flight attendants, I sleep, then wake to eat and write. On the fifth of July I boarded a plane for Denver in the morning and began it. It was as any other flight; predictable, familiar, comforting. I looked out at Mount Rainier and remembered how my biggest problems always become manageable when put into perspective. The fatigue, the emotion, the pain, the drugs, the alcohol, the ultimate. Everything had been so intense and so searing that it cauterized the wound shut even as it cut me.
When I arrived at my house in Boulder, I placed my bags in my room and went directly to the hot tub. The dogs came and licked my face, I had a jug of iced water, and over my backyard fence I looked at the foothills of the Rockies. It was time to think of this place like home, I thought. I had the week off from work, mini-camp that weekend, and an entire Ultimate season to think about. I dunked my head underwater and smiled at all the ass-kicking still left to do on the field. I thought of my friends in Colorado and the teammates that would do anything for me, even pick me up from my own despair if I needed it. Sick. I was home.