Process of Illumination

You know that crystal-ball thing Sauron has in the LOTR, where if you touch it He instantly travels into your consciousness and begins picking at it like a loose scab? I made a bunch of those this year in miniature, and carefully and clandestinely distributed them around the ultimate playing community. As I waved my arms around the One True Crystal-Ball Thing this January 1st, they called to me. And they told me the New Year’s resolutions of those that possessed them. I give them to you unedited.

I, Australian National Team, resolve to…
get more tall people playing Ultimate. Actually, get more people capable of guarding short speedy guys, like bloody Will Deaver and Zip. Yeah, mate. More short fast guys.

I, Chase, resolve to…
never play for Rhino, no matter how much they bug me, not even if they practice in a park across the street from where I live and offer to pay for my season.

I, Mamabird Ultimate, resolve to…
put last season behind us, and wake the fuck up. It seems that merely nudging Beau towards the endzone and expecting my black jerseys and reputation to do the rest is not enough. Pretty fucking close, but not enough. I resolve to actually put in the hours that everyone else thinks I put in, the ones I put in when I up and won the whole thing.

I, Frank Huguenard, resolve to…
show these fuckers who I really am. I am going to destroy Ultimate. But not by bashing it! By showing them a higher form of disc, a game so elevated in grace and concept only I could have conceived it! I will give them Dischoops!

I, Shannon O’Malley, resolve to…
forget that all that foul, explicitly sexual, and wholly inappropriate language is coming from my teammates’ and idols’ mouths.

I, Metro East Ultimate, resolve to…
really do it this year. I’m looking good, I’ve got a lot of great freshmen from the area that just rocked as high schoolers, and my leadership has been maturing the last few years. Some even played on mid-tier club teams to improve their game and bring it back to me. I am really going to do it. I am going to win a non-regional match-up in an elimination game at nationals.

I, the UPA, resolve to…
remove the Metro East from the bottom of the college pecking order by removing them from existence all together.

I, Jam, resolve to…
not take Idris back…not ask him to come back, not at all. Not beg him to return, that’s for sure…wait for him to call me. Not call him, not tonight. Definitely not ton-- <#8..#3..#1…>

I, Carleton College, resolve to...
not forget to stock up on lube next time I'm at the supermarket.

I, Sandie Hammerly, resolve to…
finally build up the nerve to ask Chase out on a date. After winning the eBay bid for his haircut – that’s when I should have done it, that was the perfect time. I could have said something cute, some coy remark about his ponytail and how I just loved it, but I blew it. Two hundred dollars and I blew it. Damn. This year. 2006. Yes. I’m going to do it.

I, Sockeye, resolve to…
surgically remove that pesky floating rib that’s kept me from physically sucking my own dick this whole time. Come to Papa, Space Needle.

I, the NUA, resolve to…
put together the biggest fucking tournament the sport has ever seen, televised prime-time pre-empting MNF, with a $50,000 purse, full refs, and the best players in the game. Even if I have to get them there by knifepoint.

I, Furious George, resolve to…
try not to laugh out loud when all these Americans refer to the UPA Club Championships as “nationals” or “natties,” like we don’t exist or own the thing. We will work hard, and leave the delusional grandeur for our unfortunate southern neighbors.

I, Richmond SpiderMonkeys, resolve to…
stomach another tough season of beatdowns at the hands of better opponents, then come back in force with a flurry of autumn hype that is bound to win us games in ’07.

I, Mixed Ultimate, resolve to...
loosen up a bit. I have an inferiority complex, I've come to terms with this. But there are many reasons why I play. Maybe I hate my local elite club team. Maybe I don't want that commitment. Maybe I can't hack it any more at that level or don't care to. Maybe I got cut because I'm not that good. I still love the game and play it with passion and enjoy the season, so why do I always get bent out of shape when some Open or Women's player tells me I suck? Could it be because they always win? Why do they always win?

I, Johnny Bravo, resolve to…
Make it past quarters this year. Really. No, really. Like, this year, the shit’s fo’ real. Like, to those who would try to beat me I say, “bring it on.”