Process of Illumination

Rhode Island Rampage

2012-01-21T17:33:00.007-07:00

Professional ultimate.
I went to the first Rhode Island Rampage tryout last Wednesday evening from 9-11pm.
40 players registered for the event and were tested in running vertical, 35m dash, 300m shuttle (25m turns) and a throwing/cutting gauntlet.
There was a brain-storming session/question opportunity.
Fantasy ultimate roster decisions were discussed.
Split into 4 teams and scrimmage twice.
5v5, make-it-take-it, stall 7, sub on the fly.
It was super fun.
The biggest rival for the Rampage will be the Connecticut Constitution.
The 2nd tryout is Wed 1/25.

Resolution

2011-12-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Hodags,

2012 approaches, and it's time to take stock in where we are and where we want to be.

Our first tournament of the year is 5 weeks away. As short a time as 5 weeks is, it's even less when you consider that we won't be reunited for another 3 weeks at least. Any opportunity that you might get to throw a disc outdoors, take it. I played pick up yesterday and have this to share: outdoors is not the McClain. Not even close.

People have always touted sports as a way of understanding yourself better, and growing as a person. Repeated often enough and it becomes cliche, like any word repeated it loses is meaning to us. But the truth of the statement remains: playing for the Hodags will teach you a lot about your personal limits, about your capacity for dedication, organization, and sacrifice. In order for us to win the championship this year we will all need plenty of each.

Most of you are young, all of you younger than me, so please listen not to me, but to years of painful experience. You will reach your limits. You will question yourself. What this team demands from each of us will, at times, seem more than what you can give. This may happen at a tournament, a practice, a workout, a test, a class. The location, even the reason for your self-doubt, is unimportant. You will be pushed and will be given an opportunity to give up and stop trying.

The desire to accept that opportunity is natural. No creature willingly hurts itself. We are equipped with a strong sense of self-preservation, and for many thousands of years it helped us to survive from generation to generation. But our genetic code is millenia behind our new purposes and endeavors. We are privileged such that merely surviving is no longer enough. And each of you, by accepting the challenges of this team, have signaled that your goals in life are higher still: you want to explore your boundaries and push beyond them. You want to become your best self.

By definition, this is not easy. The artificial limits our brains place for us are a powerful illusion to overcome. But they can be overcome. Do not hide from your fears of failure - acknowledge them. With the support of our teammates, our wills will strengthen. Resolution is not a word to be paired with the coming of a new year, it is a skill to be practiced and honed. For these next 5 months we will do just that. This team has 27 talented people but zero champions. When Memorial Day ends, I do not want to measure this team on its capacity, but on its accomplishments.Get ready to work. Get ready to grow. Who you are today as you read this will be a shell of who you become in this next semester. Relish it.

Hhodag Love,

coacHh

Dirty Dozen

2011-11-04T14:07:00.000-06:00

I guess I'm getting old. At the very least, I'm older. I returned from my 12th straight club championships Monday evening, taking in a full day of overcast skies and mellow pacing in Sarasota before calling the whole thing quits. I arrived a week prior, late in the Tuesday night, because the years' experience have also taught me a thing or two about the ins and outs of the tournament.

I love the time at the beach, and the sand hot or cold either way. It is fine and white and light between my toes, and the beaches tease you with bits of sand dollars but rarely the dollar whole. The walk along the beach south, after a Sunday stumble down the steps of the Daquiri Deck, teammates - or, if you're lucky, a pretty face - in tow, head buzzing from a powerful admixture of satisfaction and Electric Lemonade. The end-of-day chill session by your team tent with a few friends, foot free of cleat, privates finally ventilated after a harrowing day tossled and smothered and in a dank darkness.

I used to be the guy that showed up and asked who to pay and to be pointed to his match-up. I had no idea who rented cars, or put down deposits for houses, or called other adults and negotiated financial transactions. I woke up to a breakfast. I arrived at the fields and was told where and when we'd be playing. I had no idea which way was north, where I-75 was, or how to get to the Publix and back. I rode my share of pine, but every time I was called in to play it was a special event. One of my first points ever on those pristine fields ended with Parinella taking me deep. I remember the way I felt running down the play, too far behind to D it. My second or third point ended with me throwing an I/O backhand break for a goal, also against Parinella, and I certainly remember how that felt. Oh, to be a n00b again!

I remember the distinct feeling I had after each of my playing seasons. From my freshman year of college until our loss in finals against Sockeye with Bravo, I ended each season a better player than I'd started. Then I played Sub Zero '08, one of the greatest team to squander a fortune. We were like Harry Potter's boggart; scary as fuck but ultimately without much punch. It was frustrating being a team with immense talent but unable to find a common groove, and the season's saving grace was that despite our underperformance, we were great friends and loved to hang out.

After Sub's subpar performance, and exacerbated by the departure of good friends Dan Heijmen and Andrew Brown, the tenuous fiber connecting Sub's roster to some of the best of Madison's players snapped, and after several years of playing under a variety of systems, I felt I had enough knowledge to try and captain Madison Club back to the national spotlight. With players no longer commuting away, we built a team that could compete on the national stage and won our first regional crown since 2001. I brought an amalgam of ideas for running practices, offense, and defense that was informed by the systems of my prior teams and the pedagogy from my experiences as a teacher. During those first two seasons with Club, the bulk of my time and energy went toward my captaining duties, so much so that in my second year they encroached on my conditioning time. Coupled with the demands of coaching the Hodags, this meant that I went into the club season in substandard shape. I tweaked my back early, and that injury nagged me in one form or another for the rest of the season. For me, going 3 seasons without feeling I was improving as a player took a toll, and I gave up my captaining duties for this season and went on a long summer road trip to get my head right and to help Alex move to Madison with me.

It was just what I needed. I drove almost 7000 miles this summer, stayed in shape, and cleared my thoughts. When I returned, I had no responsibility on the team other than to play my best. I did. After our victory over GOaT to end our club natties, I felt like I had another 5 games in me. I was able to apply my knowledge of the game to my on-field performance more directly, and this was my best and most consistent season so far. More importantly, realizing that I could play better yet renewed my faith in myself and my love for the game.

I'm feeling good right now, coupling all my experience with the passion of my naive youth. My career, my journey through all the levels of this sport, has been such a rewarding gift. I am thankful for all my teammates and opponents that have pushed me to continue learning and improving. I feel young, I feel grateful, I feel hungry, and Mooney's record 19 consecutive natties appearances is only 7 years away...

Clubdags

2011-11-02T18:15:00.000-06:00

Hodags are forged at a variety of heats, and having returned from another fantastic trip to Sarasota, I got enjoy watching six of them tempered under the hottest flame.

The symbiosis of the Hodags and Club has long been established. Each has been dependent on the other for continued competitiveness and success. Each year the college team sends its best to Club to be schooled and steeled, and this year was no exception. What was incredible was how well they played, how much they contributed, and the size of their development from June to now.

Shortly after we were done playing on Saturday, one of the young Dags on the team asked me, "what is harder, winning a college championship or quarters of club natties?" Well, the former's a lot more prestigious but the latter is significantly harder. That's why a season on the club team is worth two years of development; all your on-field mistakes are immediately punished; your lazy poaches are quickly exploited; a higher level of consistency and excellence is demanded to make the jump from college to club.

And I am sitting here typing, and my mind is tounging around dozens of plays so tasty it makes me gleek, and on the business end of each of those plays is a man that will be wearing a Hodag jersey this spring. You've got to be kidding me. And we get six of them? Wiseman, Jake, Simmons, Colin, Hart, Coolidge?!?

One thing you notice when you go from watching club to college is the speed of the game. When the Hodags head to MLC in a little under two weeks, those six are going feel the game slow down for them. Ten seconds feels like fifteen. The mark seems predictable and lethargic. After having ran their assess off guarding and being guarded by some of the best athletes in the game, their match-ups are going to feel like recess duty. And this year we get six of them! For a moment try to imagine what it feels like to play at a fall college tournament, when for the last 5 months you've been competing against the best, when just the week prior you were drawing Ironside's best defenders.

All of my Hodag teammates played exemplary this past week. They have been rocks on the team all season, and we've relied on them in a variety of roles and asked them to contribute. They all have. Wiseman and Jake have not yet found a ceiling on their skills downfield as cutters or defenders, and both can go up with the best jumpers you've got. Hart and Colin are going to throw to each other downfield for two more springs. That's frightening. Simmons alternated catching pulls and catching hitch passes on the O-line, and had hundreds of reps reading downfield junk sets devised by the best defensive minds. I think he's going to be ok with the disc in his hand and a college team trying to play zone. These dudes are all ballers.

But I want to signal out and give respect to Coolidge, my unanimous Most Improved Player for the club team this year. For me, it's not even close. Two years ago, Coolidge had what would have been his first season with the Hodags cut short. This last year, he began contributing solidly and played well at college nationals but questions remained. He became in that year a dependable defender that could make plays from time to time, but still mistake-prone. He entered the club season with the full steam of the college season behind him however, and the immediate transition to the adult game was exactly what he needed. To say he took it to the next level would reduce him; he took a quantum leap in every facet of the game.

I remember the exact practice it happened, too. On a weekend full of small-side scrimmages, we were paired on the same team and I watched him, all day long, complete around breaks off the line. He just lit up, a box of oil and kindling in the dry August sun. Two months prior, occasional drops and turfed passes clouded his game. The heat of his flame burned them away; he has not looked back since. He erased some of the best handlers from hopeful Sarasota offensive game plans. If you thought you were starting on D above Coolidge on the Dags this season, think again. It's his throne right now, and I'm incredibly proud of him.

I'm just fucking jacked for this college season! At the start of my last club season I considered hanging them up at its end. I stuck around another year and I am bought in as hard as ever. I still have legs, I'm finding more and more heart in the unlikeliest of places, the game is making so much sense to me, and I'm having a shitload of fun again. It's just that, for me, getting older has been feeling so good; all my kid emotions and curiosity, but a self-control that allow me to use my gifts for the pursuit of daily wonder. And this college season can't start soon enough! I get to help lead a group of dudes that work so hard most of them haven't looked up to see how good they are! Are you kidding me? Fucking fantastic!

Hodags 2011-12

2011-11-01T18:47:00.002-06:00

The 2011-12 Hodag roster is set. And, Jesus, that process takes a long time.

Tryouts for the Hodags began the first week of the school year, with two weeks of open sessions on Mondays and Wednesdays. The leadership junta convened then and made an initial round of cuts, removing players that are still learning the basic rules of the game or who weren't ready athletically. We went down to about 60 from 100.

The next two weeks the intensity ratchets up as we begin to sprinkle match-up drills into the sessions that allow us to assess people directly against each other. Our scrimmages feature team focuses and a few strategy points and we look to see who can take and implement them in the game. This year's tryout group featured a higher level of basic skills across all players, if not a player clearly rising above the rest. It made for some great practices and scrimmages between teams, as we split into 4 squads and perform drills and warm-ups with our respective teams. The games give us an opportunity to watch tryouts' sideline game, to qualify intensity as it's shown. During the meeting to cut from this group, these types of intangibles count for a lot and can mean the difference between making the cut and not.

The final round of cuts goes for two more weeks, still on Mondays and Wednesdays, and culminates with our tournament No Wisconsequences. We attend in split squads that have been divided for a week and play. Last year featured both squad in finals after a surprising loss by CUT against Ball State, and finished on universe point. This year both squads again trampled through the competition, but captain Simmons' team overpowered captain Liu's easily in the wind to take the tourney.

Immediately after the fields were cleaned by both tryout teams, the junta got in a car and began the drive back to Madison, beginning the conversations about who had stood out and who they wanted to take. I'll admit that before the tournament I hadn't been too excited about any one player; I had seen good play but my jaw hadn't dropped. No Wisconsequences changed that quickly. The weekend had a stiff wind that came and went, and made the flight paths of even the best throws unpredictable at best. This meant that during any given point the odds that a pass would sail away from its intended target were high. And that means that time and again, those that showed the most tenacity were the ones frequently catching garbage throws. I'm a firm beleiver that attitude is contagious, for good or bad. I will take someone with grit and tenacity but iffy throws over someone with pretty throws but poor sideline presence and body language, any day. Being part of a team that has carved a lot of success out of sleeves-up, suffocating man D,

(Let me interject the tryout story here. Do this on your team: next tournament, take a photo (real or mental) of what your sideline looks like at random times. Choose a game and do it like every 4 points. Pay attention to your teammates' body language; what are they saying? Where are they in relation to game play? Describe your sideline in one word to yourself. It's amazing what a sideline says about the seven players on the field.)

It is crucial that you possess at least a glimmer of Kill Mode to be considered on the team at this point. As the junta debated, a few unanimous players rose from the stack, and everyone spoke of them excitedly. These are the easy rounds. We returned 19 players from the year prior and had so much talent at each position already that we could afford to take from the top of the board without having to think much about positional needs. When we reached 5 remaining players for 3 spots, we began to measure all the intangibles. Are they a good teammate? Do they march the sidelines throughout the game? Do they take initiative to contribute in small ways to the team's overall needs? We also look back and read the answers to a survey all tryouts take, paying close attention to questions that ask about team attitude, goals, and reasons for wanting to play on the Hodags. At this stage in the game, those answers can make or break someone's chances. This year, choosing the final two spots took as long as everything that had come before it. That speaks to how equivalent several candidates were in regards to their tangible skills. For a program that puts the team before the player, sideline presence ends up being the most important factor that differentiates between those vying for the final spots on the team.

This year we're fortunate to have a fantastic rookie crop, full of upbeat youthfulness that will pay big dividends to the success of the team in the spring. We took several true freshmen with a wide-eyed excitement that was contagious, and with incredible upsides. We filled out the roster with an admixture of athleticism and experience, and the final product is scary. It also underscores why gritty attitudes are so mint for this year; we have an incredibly talented team, and one danger is that we convince ourselves that talent can supplant hard work. The college season is a long one, and we've got the time to do it, but we will need to play a selfless game with iron trust if we want to cleat up on Memorial Day again. So far, I like what I see.

Good/Bad Teammate

2011-10-01T07:32:00.006-06:00

I am a bandwagon fan. Having grown up in Iowa - with zero professional teams - I had no loyalties except for the Hawkeyes. I quickly found myself rooting for the Bulls, Cowboys, Yankees and Red Wings. When I moved to Wisconsin -- I found myself rooting for the Packers, Brett Favre and even the Brewers. Now that I've landed in Massachusetts -- it's all Patriots, Red Sox and Bruins. Tom Brady is cool enough, but not as good as "Touchdown Packers!"

This brings me to collapse of the Boston Red Sox last Wednesday.

"When things go bad your true colors show and I was bothered by what was showing," Francona said. "It's my responsibility to fix it."

Francona time and again over the last few days has talked about his inability to reach the players when the season was slipping away from the team.

"Don't forget, a month ago this team was on pace to win 100 games," Francona said. "When things started to go, I wanted desperately for our guys to care about each other on the field. I wasn't seeing that as much as I wanted to. I tried to help make that better, the coaches also, it just wasn't ever comfortable. You've heard me talk all the time about going in one direction and getting through challenges and meeting them together, but I just didn't think we were doing that. That's my responsibility to get them to do that and it wasn't happening to my satisfaction."

When reading this article, one line struck me in particular -- I wanted desperately for our guys to care about each other on the field.

I've been coaching a small technical school (WPI) for the past two seasons. Having played at Wisconsin and on some solid club teams -- being a good teammate was almost second nature. Yelling from the sidelines, rushing the field, picking your teammates up -- it was all part of the process of winning. It was second nature.

However, I'm dealing with freshman who have never played competitive sports and have never had to deal with the team aspect. When things are going sour, I see a bunch of players by our sideline, not paying attention, not picking up their teammates. They weren't there for each other. This affect seems to compound when the other team goes on a run. Once we are down -- we cannot pick ourselves back up. I find it ruthlessly frustrating. I try to lead by example - stalking the sideline and yelling my support.
When I ask the players why they don't contribute, the reply is, "I don't know what to say."
Something as simple as yelling their name works the majority of the time..

Squat Til You Puke

2011-07-14T20:21:00.002-06:00

You stand alone, ten plates in the hole.
It's you versus the weight.
You're thinking, "I'm gonna get friggin' crushed."
You're thinking, "I'm not gonna get up."
But you will.
Yeah, you'll puke.
Yeah, it'll be hard getting off the crapper the next couple days.
But it'll be worth it, cuz when there's chalk on your hands and sweat on your back, there's no better place in the world.
This is pain.
This is Animal.
Can you handle it?

I've been killing the my new Lifting Program.
Front squat is my new fav.
Reverse Lunge is taking me to bed.
Don't even talk to me about Wall Ankle Mobs.
And STFU about the PallofPress Holds!
But for serious.
This squat til you puke picture is hilarious. This wedgie is too good to be true.
I'm also loving this quote: (although a bit blunt)
-Put More Weight on the Fucking Bar – Lift heavier, get stronger. Fucking magic.

In the last 34 days I've put in 96 hours of "fitness" -- with my activities including sprints on the track, pick-up ultimate, throwing murderball huckbombs with Julie, winning tournaments (#8&counting2011), weekend practice or scrimmage, and weight lifting - specifically front squat, power cleans, dead lifts, reverse lunges, pallopressholds, bench press and DB military press. I kinda want to power/hang clean 225 (see animal video). My abs look so good, I could win a bodybuilding contest.

I put down 108 Murderslams on the Wednesday prior to Potlatch.
Wisconsin then pwnd on Muckamuck as I could hit the back cones all day!
I found this picture in a Rodrigo muscle magazine under his bed.

A Few Posts coming from Coach Hh

2011-05-31T22:25:00.000-06:00

For the last three days I've been feeding my body a steady supply of dayquil to suppress a flu that began shortly after the tournament. Nationals nights have always been restless for me. As the culmination of months of training and preparation, my mind races through a year of memories and a tournament's worth of scenarios. As it is, I have a restless inner monologue, and on those nights there's no stilling it. And this season has been an incredible journey, so long and endless until suddenly, it ended. I have people to thank and give credit to, some improvements I'd make to myself, and some great memories, and I want to get them down while they're fresh.

I'm going to sit down with my little netbook after work for the next few days and get as many of them down as I can, and I plan on sharing many of them here. So be it.

"Are You Ready to Go Live?!?!?!?!"

2011-05-31T21:52:00.000-06:00

This was the question that Billy Stone, CBS Sports representative, posed to us, the captains and coaches meeting before the beginning of the championship. By far the most dynamic and exciting of the speakers at the captain's meeting, he had everyone present fired up to finally get some real exposure for the sport. Frequently stressing the need to tone down the language in huddles and on the field, he was adamant that having seen the footage from last year's natties, the top brass at CBS Sports was ready to double down this year with their coverage and exposure of college Ultimate's hallmark event.

"And next year, we want to go...live!" His energy was infectious. Hell yes, of course we want to go live. We all do. It'd be great to have a well-produced live showing of the championship games for the open and women's division. After our incredible semifinal game against Colorado, in my opinion the game to watch of the tournament, Peggy, a Wisconsin alum and producer of the Alt Games footage, said that in production meetings they had talked about adding more footage of Ultimate to their CBS broadcast, from the planned 6 minutes to as many as 9. This would be the footage that gets televised to 120 million homes.

But all of this was before finals against CUT. Carleton vs. Wisconsin, the rivalry and history promised to make this game one to remember. Then the winds came racing down the foothills, shearing the support cables from the Alt Games inflatable arch and sending it tumbling end over end above the fence behind the north end of the fields. I could see our team game plan fly away with it, and I'm sure that Tom Crawford and the rest of USAU saw the promise of a watchable game of Ultimate soar away as well.

Jack Marsh, Harvard Red Line and Wisconsin Hodag alum summed it up best, watching online from NYC and tweeting his opinion, "I can hear @cbssports shredding its @usaultimate contract from here."

Nationals was an incredible experience, so much fun and so rewarding for many reasons, but that wind made the open finals game unwatchable. It certainly wasn't Ultimate in the way every game beforehand had defined it. Are we ready to go live, Billy Stone? I am, I certainly want to be, but then again I won't be the one watching, I'll be the one living it.

West Coast to East

2011-03-30T09:02:00.003-06:00

Oof,

No way to sugar coat it, we got worked over at the Stanford Invite a couple of weeks back. Whether one chooses to blame the Pacific time zone, or a depleted squad, or an ingrown toenail, the fact remains that for the whole of the tournament we were listless on the field, lacking energy and playing complacent.

Perhaps a solid outing at Florida Warm-Up made us feel that we were well on our way - a way that like a greased slide would effortlessly lead us to Regionals. What we proved is that no matter how much talent we have, we are only as good a team as the effort and work that we put into each point of each game. We eked out a few victories, but it was the resignation during our losses that was most troubling. We came back from Stanford with only a week before Spring Break, and a lot of work to do.

The Hodags left icy Wisconsin to their beach house along the shores of the Atlantic in Myrtle Beach. In contrast to last year's destructo-fest, that left little of the house intact, this year's week of bonding was filled with throws and touches. Beach time was an opportunity to throw with a brisk breeze, and the team organized a few team-wide practices to stay fresh and to work on fundamentals - an important focus for any team.

That work paid dividends at Easterns where, team-wide, unforced errors diminished. We found ourselves in a dogfight against Colorado to take the pool but could not convert the score on double-game point, so despite a win against pool winners and eventual semifinalists Michigan we played a prequarters game and faced Florida in quarters.

Our eventual 7th place finish was disappointing to much of the team, because we played well for 4/ 5ths of every game, but we were unable to close games against our stiffest competition and it cost us dearly. However, the silver lining is that our defense generated turns and breaks against all teams present, and we led late in the second half of every game we played. Being able to stay tenacious and shut the door on teams once we've established a lead will be crucial for our success, and we're currently placing our O-line in do-or-die situations at practice where they must convert in straight possessions or lose the game.

Arriving back from Easterns, we were greeted by a sunny spring in Madison. The weather has been brisk, in the 30s and 40s, but when the sun is out we get sweaty and it feels like summer is around the corner. The weather's cooperation has been a blessing to us as a team, and we're outside taking full advantage. Considering that we've only had 5 outdoor practices since the beginning of 2011, we're nowhere near our ceiling and we leave each practice a little better than how we arrived.

Up next this weekend is Huck Finn, a late addition to our schedule to get the younger players on the team reps, and to help us gel on the field. While I won't be in attendance, I think that will probably work in their favor, as each player will have to step up and be accountable for themselves, to each other.

Our last indoor practice 2011

2011-03-02T12:12:00.000-07:00

The thermometer outside threatens to dip below 20F, and the clear skies belie cold gusts that slap at the UW students' faces as they walk to class. Although spring is technically three weeks away, its warm temperatures and tree blossoms don't seem any closer now than they did a month ago.

Still, the impending arrival of several cairns signal that spring is in fact rapidly approaching. Daylight savings time is 10 days away. Our sectional tourney, and the college series for everyone, begins in little over a month. And in two days, we board a plane for SFO and the Stanford Invite.

As I mentioned before, with Lent starting so late this year our annual pilgrimage to Mardi Gras fatefully conflicted with the Stanford Invite. We made the difficult choice of foregoing a geographically closer tournament to play against west coast teams we won't see otherwise until, if all goes well, Memorial Day weekend in Boulder. But this has shortened our pre-series schedule by one tournament, not insubstantial, making each game more important to our development.

Compounding this, last night was our final indoor practice of the season in the McClain Center. Last year, the women's rugby club dropped a serious ball and missed the deadline for reserving space and time indoors. Their loss was all other club sport teams' gain, and even late in the season where we and several other teams gave them some of our indoor sessions, we had plenty of opportunities to meet. Needless to say, the rugby team didn't make the same mistake again and that, along with a reduction the the number of total dates available to all teams, meant that we had only 4 total sessions indoors. The end of our indoor practices came so suddenly that Feldman and Cullen didn't realize the significance of it being their last indoor practice ever until midway through last night. Cullen worked accordingly, scoring and spiking goal after goal and, at practice's end, spending a few wistful moments reflecting on 5 years of Hodag service before checking back into reality and realizing that he had to get home, at 12:45am, to do some homework.

We can't well spend the time between Stanford and the arrival of warm weather waiting for opportunities to throw outside, so in Wisconsin winter spirit we have to make them. So take some gloves, some Patagonia gear, and 20 minutes outdoors before the cold makes the Ultrastar's plastic so stiff and brittle it could shatter from an dropped pass, and you've got yourself a 'Sconny throwing sesh. We're not a pretty team, but the college series ain't a beauty pageant.

Follow the Stanford Invite here, and check the Hodag twitter feed for frequent updates (or my feed for infrequent but typically wittier quips). See you in California.

An agreement and a response

2011-02-17T15:16:00.002-07:00

I've been following Lou Burrus' writings at Win The Fields as he discusses several reasons why referees aren't the panacea to Ultimate's ills, and I certainly agree. He mentions in two different posts the strongest points I have for continuing our current observer system, but having the observers perform the duties as they're prescribed.

The first point he addresses is the time between when a call is made and its resolution. I am in favor of the observers giving some time for players to work out an understanding of the play in question, but in my opinion observers have shied away from stepping in when it's clear the disagreement between the players won't be resolved. This can start with all players keeping in mind that in many contested fouls, a call/contest response is acceptable. But observers, perhaps afraid of being too large an influence, have developed a neutered style where they'll sit back and, only after minutes have been whittled away, step in and make a call. The observers need to be ready with a ruling, then interject and either rule one way or send the disc back.

Secondly, I am all for observers wielding team and personal misconduct fouls with greater frequency as a way to dissuade players and teams from forcing stoppages of play with bullshit calls and fouls to dictate the pace of the game. Right now the threshold for TMFs and PMFs is so high that only egregious violations seem to merit them. While observers have in the last year been more generous with TMFs, I don't think it's been enough of a change yet.

Lastly, as I perused some write-ups from Warm-Up, I read this breakdown of teams on No-Look Scoober, where the writer Stonewall Jackson conflates some heated intra-teammate talk with "issues being a unified squad". He goes on to write, "In one instance, negativity seemed to go over the top, past teammate to teammate heckling when members on the sidelines expressed their discontent with some turnovers colorfully."

I couldn't disagree with this more. It goes without saying that the writer was nowhere near the fields, or even Florida, during the tournament, but there wasn't a single instant all weekend where I thought any Hodag went over the top in criticism of his teammates and, had I felt that was the case, there would have been immediate and significant consequences for doing so. This Hodag squad is fantastic; I couldn't be more happy with or proud to coach them, and each of them would go to the limit of their abilities to help any of the others. If teams are looking at our unity as a possible place to get an edge or incite divisiveness look elsewhere, because you'll be wasting your time. If there's one things the Hodags have never lacked, it's strength through unity, and indeed our most common cheer, and the bedrock of our team philosophy, states it. Hodag Love.

When neighbors lock their doors

2011-02-16T14:45:00.002-07:00

After two days of rest to allow the knots and tightness to dissipate, the Hodags reconvene tonight at their winter lair, the Shell. With a long list of things to improve on but not much opportunity to touch on those that require discs, we can only turn our focus toward the one thing we have control over: team-wide fitness. Tonight Jerrybomb sets about as taskmaster to the team's athleticism. In his tenure as team fitness coordinator he has established himself as an efficient trainer with a splash of sadism that his civilian acquaintances, unfamiliar to the rigors of competitive Ultimate, don't get to see.

I drift now to moments on the sidelines this weekend whenever a call was made, in our games or otherwise, that nullified a score or big play made by one of the teams. Mostly I think of all the incredulity and snark that comes out of the mouths of players too far away to see any part of the play with clarity, or senseless noise coming from players who didn't see what happened at all.

It seems now we're at a moment where everyone provided with vocal chords claims as their right some permutation of best perspective; where every call's legitimacy is argued if it goes against your team; where even the worst calls a teammate can make are upheld as manifest truth.

It reminds me of a moment in Steven King's The Stand where the survivors of a biological apocalypse, after enjoying a period of camaraderie and tight communion, begin to lock the doors in their Boulder, CO homes as the size of the settlement swells, and distrust once again takes root within the cracks of unfamiliarity.

On the heels of the UPA (oops - USAU -old habits die hard) announcing that membership has reached an all-time high and junior memberships have now surpassed those of adults, I'm wondering if we're losing some of that closeness that allowed self-officiation to thrive, that community which allowed each of us as players to leave the doors of our trust unlocked during games.

At the captain's meeting this year at Club Nationals, there was nary a peep about the future of referees in Ultimate - quite the opposite, the corporate line from CEO Tom Crawford and everyone else who spoke from headquarters stressed the future of the sport as predicated on self-officiation as the keystone in the arch of selling points the USAU is using to push Ultimate to a wider market.

And I don't want you to get me wrong - I love self-officiation in this sport. But it's been my experience lately that the familiarity between players nationwide has diminished as our numbers have grown, and now the hardest thing to find on the field the moment after a contentious call is civility, and players with unsubstantiated opinions and no desire to base them on any hard reality sprout like uncontested weeds from the green of the pitch and sidelines. If our civility holds its current decaying trajectory, we're going to need to modify our rules eventually to allow for more observer empowerment, and not because self-officiation is dead or impossible, but because new generations of players simply aren't putting in the effort necessary to make it work. Trust and democratic spirit within a game are as difficult as any upfield break or off-handed sky, but while the latter two bring instant glory and praise, the former two affect the game with a subtlety not immediately tangible. It's only during the handshakes between teams, at the end of a long and hard-fought game that both felt was called fairly, that their true value comes to light.

It's my responsibility, and a primary focus since taking the helm of the Hodags, to make sure this team enjoys and promotes a style of play that is aggressive, intense, and competitive, but also fair, honest, and full of the sportsmanship that Spirit of the Game upholds but has hardly cornered within our sport. For the Hodags and teams nationwide, the challenge remains.

Sufficiently warm

2011-02-15T13:46:00.001-07:00

We returned from Florida with 9 games under our belt, 6 victories, 3 losses, and for my part, one hell of a shirt tan. Most importantly, as we boarded a giant team flight on AirTran back to Wisconsin we had a long list of things we needed to work on for these next three weeks, before the Hodags once again board a plane and head to the opposite coast for the Stanford Invite.

We arrived at the field complex of the University of Southern Florida on a morning that could have been warmer. With our breaths barely visible at our faces and the thermometer pushing the bottom 40s, teams warmed up in full pants and jackets, and hands were kept warm between drills within the heat of our crotchspace. UNC-W coach Tully Beatty complained that, aside from the fact it wasn't raining, the weather had not improved on their long drive southward. The Hodags were happy to feel even the lightest touch of warmth though, and we set about getting our legs ready for the weekend.

We began round robin play with the host team. My concern was our rusty throws would be an even bigger disadvantage playing against home field, and true to form our defense's O had trouble converting. Our legs carried us though and we were able to generate many turns. Our O-line looked sharp however, and carried the half without a single break to its detriment. When the second half started, our D finally got its throws together and we eliminated casual turns. The result was rattling off several breaks and taking the game 13-7.

We had a brief break before playing Cornell who, despite having made semifinals of Natties last year (can't believe it!), came with maybe 13 pairs of legs to this tournament. It was the 2nd game for both teams, but they were already looking tired, and by this time the D squad was humming along. Despite the efforts of a few astute throwers on Cornell, their defense was unable to generate any breaks all game and we took it in hand 13-6.

Our next game against Virginia was the first real test. We went into halftime with a lead that felt comfortable, and when our O-line was finally broken our defense was too lax to respond. A few sloppy points in a row by our O-line, and suddenly we found ourselves down a point neediing to tie. The game evened at 10-10, then we broke to take advantage, and traded to the cap, with our team receiving tied at 11s. The hard cap had come on, and with only 5 minutes until the start of the next round we scored to win on double game point. There was contention, however, as Virginia was unaware that we'd been playing under hard cap for the last two points (they scored to tie it at 11s, forcing the final point), and they complained. There was nothing to be done with tournament director Cyle Van Auken looking on, and as they bitterly asked him, "what more can we do?" he answered them deadpan, "keep track of time."

Here I'll interject that while it is each team's responsibility to do so, I understand Virginia's frustrations. There was no loud horn indicating soft or hard cap, and teams were left to manage time themselves. And normally, I would have talked to someone on the other team to ensure that both teams know the situation but this was our first tournament, and I'm becoming comfortable with my own duties, and in the moment it didn't cross my mind. So, apologies to Virginia, but that's how it goes. Keep track of time.

I'll also mention that the amenities for this tournament were what amenities.

Two port-a-johns, 200m away from the fields, both out of toilet paper by the second round. These boxes of filth were brimming beyond their capacity by the 3rd day, and attempting to deuce at the fields on Sunday became a challenge in careful placement, lest you bottom out too soon and find yourself with no place to go. Only at a tourney with no women's division could you even hope to get away with this. The captain's meeting consisted of a USF player clearly in over his head rattling off rules that he thought were right (he was proven wrong later, his stated 1TO/half + a floater became 2TO/half by the end of the tourney), and the trainer was available whenever we didn't need her. She was contracted to arrive after the start of rounds, and left before the end of the day, along with whomever was taking care to fill water jugs. Not that you can ask for much with a low tourney fee, but I think as a sport we need to get used to paying a little more and having, at bare minimum, a trainer present ANY TIME players are running on the fields, and bathroom facilities that can withstand the copious fecal production 9 teams generate. Just sayin'.

Our final game was against Colorado to end Friday's play. They took it to us fairly well, capitalizing quickly on unforced errors by our O-line. We hardly played our best game, and a couple of breaks in the second half by the D gave us confidence going into Saturday that we could generate goals against any offensive line, however our O-line execution faltered in the second half of the day and we needed to address those struggles. We had drops and throw-aways that are unchacteristic for this team, but with wind playing with the disc's path and edge, our lack of experience outside showed when we played against teams with more aggressive defenses. The day closed with food, and a delicious couple of Bell's Two-Hearted ales for me and Scotto back at the tourney.

Saturday showcased the Florida weather we expected, with not a cloud in the sky. Perhaps it was that distraction that caused us to lay an egg in the first game, or perhaps Harvard's junky 3-3-1 gave our team fits as we faced the first zone of the season. The cutters downfield failed to attack the poaches aggressively, and instead languished behind the cup playing it as a true zone, which allowed the Red Line ample time to switch and clog lanes. Despite several opportunities to bring the game back into the fold, it was the O-line who ultimately folded and we lost 13-8.

This loss put our backs to the wall, needing to generate at least one victory and looking down the mouth of a Sunday that held CUT and Florida, our two biggest rivalries (Colorado being the other). I've called our team young, and having had CUT and Colorado hand it to us at MLC in the fall, and then faltering at the end of Friday vs Colorado, and laying an egg vs. Harvard, we reached a point of crisis. Are we as good as we think we can be? The short answer is not yet, but our potential is essentially limitless at the college level, and the second half of Saturday bore that out.

Our offense put together its finest effort in a classic game against CUT, with neither team blinking in a staring match that lasted until 9-9, when we finally got our first break, then piled on 3 more to take the game 13-10. The game began as contentious as our games always do, but by its end both teams were letting their hard effort do the talking for them. The exhilaration of this victory buried any disappointment in the loss to Harvard, and we carried that momentum directly into our game against Florida an hour later.

Florida is still Florida. They're still just a few players deep, but they're good players, and Troll Sullivan and Alex Hill anchor a team that would otherwise not chart in the Illboard Top 20. But the team is lacking the strength they've had in role players elsewhere, and their one-dimensionality proved their undoing. While other teams might struggle against the Florida image, to us it's always been a rallying point, and our O-line cutters had a field day with a downfield defense too soft to generate pressure against them. Florida basically waits until you make a mistake, and then tries to force something deep to or from Sullivan. Alex Hill plays the role of comic foil and looks to establish power position for himself and Cole as often as possible. Against a Hodag team hungry and smelling victims, it wasn't often enough. We won easily 13-9.

It's not everyday you can beat CUT and Florida within 2 hours of each other. Although too early in the season for either win to mean anything substantive, what we did learn is that we're as real as we thought we could be, and that despite our youth we have a lot of positives working in our favor. We also proved to ourselves the power of an engaged and vocal sideline; a lesson crucial for a team of this size and age. With everyone following the play and communicating to teammates, defense downfield suddenly seemed like a group affair. This lesson, and the confidence it provided, will have to remain with us for the rest of the season if we mean to accomplish the goals we've set for ourselves.

Sunday came with the best weather of the weekend, though not our best play. A young UNC-W team kept it close against us during the first half before surrendering too many breaks on unforced (and forced) errors, and despite some tit-for-tat calls early we ran away with it in the second half 13-7. Meanwhile Colorado lost to a fired-up Virginia in the field next to us, with the game going to the end of the round. Perhaps someone on Night Train finally brought a watch.

We secured a spot in semifinals against CUT, and never took it for granted that this game would be a tougher challenge than our first battle against them. The offense didn't have their best game though, and despite the defense generating turns we weren't able to convert on many of them. Lowlights included 5th year captain Ben Feldman joining an illustrious line of Hodags (2007 Callahan winner Dan Heijmen among them) that have caught a gorgeous pass in the red zone and immediately spiked the disc, before realizing they were well outside the endzone. In this case Feldman's elbow spike placed the disc about 10 yards out. Such was the nature of the D-line offense, coming close to a few breaks but not able to finish, and we lost the game to a fired up (and Grant-less) CUT squad, 13-7. The rivalry remains heated.

CUT took that victory and piled on top of it a complete game against Mamabird in finals. Norden does a lot of the heavy lifting for CUT on the throwing end, and Julian seemed like he was at recess downfield, running around unopposed and catching everything thrown his way. A well-earned victory for CUT over Mamabird 14-12, and for those keeping track, the Central remains the strongest region, or most top-heavy, nationwide.

Last-minute prep, and some weekend twitter feeds

2011-02-10T11:06:00.001-07:00

Follow the Hodag twitter feed, along with the twitter account of the other 8 teams at the Leagevine website for Warm-Up, A Florida Affair.

The 'Dags are en route to the airport as I type this, office full of students stuffing their faces with the a la carte offerings of the high school deep fryer. I'm finding it's taking all I have to focus on the school work here and not the sun and ultimate awaiting us tomorrow.

Our schedule for the weekend:
Friday -
10am vs South Florida
noon vs. Cornell
2pm vs. Virginia
5pm vs. Colorado

Saturday -
noon vs. Harvard
2pm vs. Carleton Poopstains
6pm vs. Florida

Sunday -
8am vs. UNC-Wilmington
10am placement games and semis
12:30pm Finals

Rivalries everywhere. I love the round robin format. At this early juncture, it gives everyone plenty of games. It also makes every game carry weight, not only in victories, but also point differential. Every point counts, literally, because you never know when you'll need to win by one more or lose by one less to come out on top of some convoluted tie that is settled by point diff. We're aware of the stakes and we need to play with them in mind. See you down in Florida, where I will be tweeting from my account occasionally and the @hodaglove account will be active with updates.

A practice before heating up

2011-02-09T08:06:00.001-07:00

Yesterday the Hodags swarmed the McClain Center for our final cleated practice before A Florida Warm-Up.I had spent the previous three hours in the library of my high school beginning the 3-part mediation between two rival gangs, represented by students at my high school and another in the city, in an effort between the school, the police department's anti-gang unit, and neighborhood intervention groups, to squash the beef between them. Tempers between the two gangs had flared earlier last year, culminating in the murder of a former student from here as he relaxed during a smoke break outside his workplace. Now, the police were seeing the same level of activity they'd noticed before that murder, and little fights and shit-talking were escalating just as they had then, and the three nights of talks are efforts by a wide range of concerned adults to broker a loose truce before things again get out of hand.

These were the thoughts in my mind as I drove downtown toward practice, and they were locked in step with me during my warm-up jog around the Shell's 200m indoor track.One of the blessings of a positive, high-energy activity like Ultimate (or any sport, for that matter) is its ability to clear your mind of things otherwise too heavy to shake before bed. After two miles of jogging, my mind, like a stiff and sore hamstring, finally released and the endorphins put me back where I wanted to be, excited and anxious as we prepared for the season's first tourney.

The focus was squarely where it needs to be for a team locked indoors during the harshness of winter: throws and touches. We approached the first half of practice they way we will our Friday morning warm-up, building speed, intensity, and demand of skill throughout the drills we executed. Although the winter months can sometimes lead to indoor fatigue, and sloppy and distracted play, the team knows that each minute in McClain is precious, and veterans kept the pace flowing. Although our ability to account for wind indoors, where every throw is unadultered, is next to impossible, by emphasizing crisp throws and sure hands we're able to at least prepare our minds and hands for the speed of the game.

And the best part is that this team has speed in spades. We're fast. That extra gear was on display as we moved to the second half of practice, which consisted of scrimmaging between the offensive squad and our defense. Although we looked a bit rusty at times, everyone approached each point as an opportunity to win their match-up, and our defensive aggression shone through. Colin Camp set the tone early with a full layout D on a huck that reminded me of Charles Woodson's diving effort that cost him his left collarbone in the Super Bowl. Colin paid only with some skin off his knee, and the team responded to his example. Although only a sophomore, Colin is already showing national-level superstar caliber, and it's these little inspiring plays like his that this team rides and requires for momentum.

Faces were exhausted and layers of jerseys soaked in sweat when 12:15am arrived, but everyone felt better about our readiness going into this weekend. We're going to be rusty, and our throws in wind will feel like we're learning to walk all over again, but our team is athletic and more importantly, determined. Can't wait.

For a nice study in contrast, take a look at today's weather in Madison, WI vs. Tampa Bay, FL.

Seasons don't end, just change

2011-02-05T07:33:00.001-07:00

The damnedest thing about writer's block is that it doesn't stem from a lack of things to write about. Writing requires you to summon the energy necessary to relive the memory, and revisit its emotions, and that process is exhausting. It's kind of like why I haven't gotten around to watching Hotel Rwanda or Blood Diamond yet; I want to, but I know I'll be spent when I'm done, and I'll do it later when I have some more energy, ok?

In my absence Muffin's stream of conscience, like kudzu, grew outward without check and my blog has become an ill-kept garden. The links need weeding and pruning, the masthead a dusting, but mostly I just need to sit down and with the regularity of a drip irrigation system water the keyboard with my words. Yet that takes time, and the catch-22 I'm in is that while I am doing a lot I'd love to write about, the time required to do those things leaves little for their writing. And this being a new year, I toss my resolution to take time to write into the ring, there to rest with everyone else's.

So, aside from it generally being agreed upon that I'm on of the coolest people at my high school (by both fellow staff and students), I've been getting caught up in some Ultimate. I am the coach of the Hodags for the second year in a row, I reprised my role as counselor at Next Level, a camp for high school players, and I also completed my second year with Club as its captain, and we returned to Natties, for my 11th straight appearance. It's been a great experience, with a lot of learning along the way, and I'll entertain the thought that some of you voyeurs out there might be interested in reading about it.

Now, the Hodags are a week away from the first tournament of the spring, Warm-Up, A Florida Affair. We've been busy here in the taiga, alternating digging ourselves out of snow drifts and working out. This year's team returned 18 players from last year - a larger number than many other team's total rosters. Still, an overwhelming number of them were hard-nosed role players from last year. Our success this year will be predicated on these players emerging past their comfort zones and filling out into larger roles.

The departure of both of last year's captains, Matt Crumb and Jake Smart, along with losing the anchor of our offense, Callahan nominee and former captain Evan Klane, left a void at the top of the leadership. However, we have a crop of juniors and seniors that have been hungry to fill these places, and the emergence of Zach Alter and Alex Simmons as trailbreakers has made the transition easier.

Our main challenge has been dealing with the invernal elements. Practice time is at a premium here at UW-Madison, with excellent facilities but armies of club teams fighting for indoor time at the McClain Center. We again took a full roster this season, expecting attrition (but not so early in the season - we've already lost one player we were counting on), and what we need most now is time to play the sport and get used to each other. With Mardi Gras falling later than usual this year on account of this year's liturgical calendar, it conflicted with the Stanford Invite. It was a hard decision to pass up on Mardi Gras, considering that having won the money for like 8 years in a row now they should just rename it Mardi Gras Presents: The Hodags, but we have few opportunities to travel to the west coast and we had to take the one that fit us best.

We find ourselves again this year a young team, with more true freshman than in several years, but our athleticism has increased and our Sophomore/Junior classes are stellar. Provided we're able to put all the pieces together, we will again find ourselves competing against the best teams in the country for a shot at the national championship in Boulder, my second home, come Memorial Day.

WUCC 2010

2010-07-05T09:18:00.038-06:00

World Ultimate Club Championships 2010 - Boston Ironside

Europe is nuts. Prague is hot. Amsterdam jacked my saline solution, forcibly checked my luggage (cleats!), but allowed Surly Beer through unscathed. Ultimate players dominated the scene. The ATM's give out 2000 bills. WUCC check-in was easy enough, although hectic. Stubbs inadvertently misled Rebholz and Muffin into believing their badges was missing -- sending them on a goose-chase for their ID badges - possibly retaliation for getting Smirnoff ICED at Boston Invite last week. The electric plugs are European and the language barrier consists mostly of pointing, smiling, and occasionally bribing.

Ironside team dinner at 7pm. Everything is so cheap -- literally Monopoly money. The World Cup soccer games are crazy to watch. The Old Square has a giant screen set up and the Germany fans went nuts when they owned on Argentina. The Spain goal was equally as loud as Ole-Ole-Ole-Ole cheer rang out, it was easy to picture Shane and Will fist pumping here. Nearing 10:30pm, the old guys grabbed a cab home -- leaving 9 troublemakers out on the town. 3 miles, 7 bars and 10 drinks later -- we found the perfect dance club -- complete with a fog machine and 2 ladies celebrating their bachelorette party. The best part was being solicited to enter a strip club - Hot Peppers no less than 15 times throughout the night. Even more ridiculous was the midget solicitor who said "yeah midgets, in a cage, and you can kick them." Finally asleep at 3am.

The first game was against Munich, Germany at 10:30am. The stadium was large enough to hold a full scale riot. The empty fields were reserved for youth soccer, so we had to warm-up in the 5 yards of sideline space between the stone wall and the field. The field is skinny small, like 35 wide with end zones only 20 deep. It is super hot -- like 85 plus. Ironside began on Offense and promptly turned the disc twice, hucking OB and then Jimmy Foster slipping and taking the disc in the face. The grass was like putting greens. Muffin scored the first break from Dave Hoel to take a 3-2 lead. George Stubbs had a full layout grab in the end zone for an early score 4-3, only to exclaim, "Whoa, I might still be drunk." Germany was tight and gave Boston the disc with a little pressure as the advantage jumped to 7-3 as Naz ripped a huge backhand to Seth-Ro. Teddy jacked a lazer huck to Danny Clark as the lead grew to 12-4. Muffin had a layout D and D-Hoel made a nice box out sky D to make it 15-5. Rebholz and Jasper moved the offense down the field quickly as the the final score was 17-5. The post-game European style huddle was cool as Jacob Goldstein was awarded a sweet MVP jersey. Ryan Todd & Mike Zalisk had to follow up their presentation with a borrowed box of Boston baked beans candy. Hopefully, Ironside can wrestle up something better for the next team.

Next was lunch with Georgia Bosscher as Boston teased her dreadlessly in the shade until warm-ups - complete with Chicken dancing and teaching the 2-step sumo-style Ironman dance. The second game of Sunday was against the Mo Hor! team at 2:30pm. The offense started the game just as the first, turning it twice before getting the D's back and scoring to take a 1-0 lead. #23 for the Slovaks takes the hitch pass and rips a rocket IO backhand on a flick mark for the upwind score 1-1. After that, Boston settled down and moved the disc with ease. The big hammers soon came out as Ironside jumped to a commanding lead 6-2. Half-time was 9-2 as Stubbs was showered with water during the pump up speech. Foster had a full extension slider near the goal line, only to look off a wide open Purcel at the cone, only to throw a floaty looper into double coverage on the S cut for the sky score. Seigs played physical American D for a point and was awarded with a choice swear word. Slovakia scored on a couple of deep balls that either Danny or Colthammer misread by attempting to take at 11 feet as the game ended 17-5. The post-game circle speech was just as awkward as the first, but at least our USA headband accessories went over better. The Czech's had a Chinese Firecracker, "Did we bring the big one?" Three guys lifted an imaginary artillery cannon to the middle set it off and with a screeching whistle made the boom -- very funny.

Will Lokke of Chain told stories of going down to Luxunberg 2-3, before running off 14 straight points. The shuttle service was on holiday so we played Ninja warrior for an hour before finally getting to the women's showcase game and opening ceremony. Hot Pepper! The Czech and Canadians battled to the brink. Czechs down 12-16, before tying the game on 16-16! The golden goal went to the Canadians and partying commenced.

Next up was the Irish Pub where Zalisk was witnessing feats of strength between Chain Lightning and Revolver. It was an All-American take-over as ATL vs. San Fran boat race went down to the wire 1-1. The rubber match had to wait as Revolver passed, giving handshakes with their tails tucked between their legs. The Kid yelled of his dominance and pounded his chest as Jolian just playboy smiled, drank his water, and got a number of a 15 year old. Boston entered the fray and stepped up to the boat race challenge -- getting crushed (Peter Prial *sigh*) in the first round before evening the score 1-1. The rubber match went down to the wire, but "What's that Smell? A-T-L! took the title of best boat racers. Teddy was promptly licked in the face by a girl. Since it was the fourth of July -- all the American's sang a rousing chorus of the star spangled banner!

Lokke was ICED, twice -- Zip was ICED in the bathroom, and Chicken was ICED with his shirt off at the 5 story dance club, with an assist from a foreign girl. Seth and Peter were almost pick-pocketed by prostitutes as the fog machines rumbled. Ridiculous adventures all night. Muffin accidentally locked Goldstein out of their room and apparently, Seigs does not kiss and tell. Foster was hit on by a shy girl in the 80's room as some dude streaked when his favorite song came on.

Monday's first game at 12:30. Warm up time, where is George? Zalisk was sent on a rescue mission and found Stubbs sleeping still. For the third time, Boston had only 15 minutes of field time before playing. The French Jack Sons were drilling big cross field hucks. The nearby French spectators tease that Nasser is the best French player around, and now he plays with Ironside. Boston began on offense as Rebholz and Jasper moved the disc breakside, until Chicken scores 1-0. The Defense runs a train as Goldstein breaks to Muffin to Seth Reinhardt 2-0. Ironside is playing with intensity for the first time all weekend as the French are fired up. Captain #13 pounds the disc in frustration after a sick poach layout D that he is getting no deep hucks. Hilarious - because he does not speak English. Foster screams Hot Peppers! Boston fires up as Purcel helps out with a deep poach D and punches in a break for a 6-2 lead. Seth-Ro gets a big contact over the top nice D, but doesn't contest the foul because he wanted to be nice 8-3. Muffin and Nasser walk on for rare Offensive point and run it deep to Jimmy Foster 9-3 for half. The French up the intensity out of half and storm back to make it 13-7, despite a nice Seigs jack to Nasser with a bunch of contact for a goal. The defense finishes a marathon point 17-8. High fives and a team picture later -- Boston was eating.

Just this in, Wiggins says Sockeye vs. Revolver at 10:30am tomorrow.
Doublewide vs. Chain Lightning and Ironside vs. Chevron Hot Flash Action at 10:45am tomorrow.
The showcase game of Doublewide vs Columbia was hotly heckled. The kick spikes did not help. Even Frances had to leave her team to heckle Salad Melancamp Hot Pepper! Night campus disc golf with our brand new World's ultimate discs was a great idea - especially on the concrete. Only 4 cars and 2 windows were hit in the process. Big games tomorrow. Less partying tonight.

What day is it? Tuesday? It was much cooler and with rain in the forecast. The pre-game atmosphere and intensity of the match was markedly different. The game speed was definitely higher with much more physical contact on the marks. Chevron was the European Champs and definitely wanted to win this game. Andrew Brown visited from the sidelines, with a full grown Canadian look-a-like beard, bow representing Invictis aka Furious, who came up just short against the Buzz Bullets 14-17 in the round before. Boston was on defense first and dug in for a windy contest, but couldn't convert the turn 0-1. Chicken, Rebholz, and Danny Clark went back to work to score quickly 1-1. Again the defense could not convert a turn and offense was left to Stubbs ripping a nasty upwind flick to Jimmy Foster 2-2. The Defense eventually forced a backfield turn as Goldstein moved the disc now 3-2. However, on the next upwind break, Teddy toed the line for a goal, but was smashed out of bounds, slamming his shoulder into the concrete wall and smacking his head bloody good 4-2. "We have a doctor. We have a doctor too." Boston was in control, but the contest swayed back and forth as England knotted the game at 5-5ish? Muffin found Nasser on the break side who ripped a big backhand to Foster for an easy O point. A Ryan Todd backhand was mack D'd before Nasser magic trick grabbed the disc through a Chevron armpit for an upwind score. Hot Pepper! Goldstein burned a timeout to convert a set play to Peter Prial for the halftime score 8-5. The second half turned windy and shitbox as Muffin and Seigs missed upwind hucks. Muffin also had a clap drop on a swing pass, but almost got the D back with a huge break side bid. The next pass, Seigs followed up with a big layout and foul. Chevron scored and spiked it. Several calls went all the way to rock-paper-scissors status, not to mention the captains twice coming out to flip for outcomes. There was one hammer catch/down call that went to fisticuffs. No noses were broken. The rain downpour began at 13-9 and Boston punched in the goal to lead 14-9 in full fledged sheets of gushing rain. Lightning hit, Hot Pepper was screamed, and Ironside climbed to the box seats. When the rain subsided, Boston re-warmed up for 10 minutes and then heard a 30 minute delay more from the TD. Much arguing later and flip-flopping, Chevron agreed to concede the game at 14-9, rather than trying to play it on turf 30 minutes later. The MVP went to the best looking English cock. The rest of the games were canceled. Castle surfing and semifinal soccer this afternoon! My ribs hurt, and Teddy can barely lift his arm. At lunch, Seigs dropped 19 tequila shots on Brute Squad, a $1 per shot. I love this country.

Through word of mouth Doublewide might have taken half on Chain. Although Jolian claims Chain was in control all game and took it all down 17-12. Revolver took down Sockeye, although the Fish made a late push 13-10. Currently, some of Boston is talking about jerking it deep as George Stubbs hears Harvard co-captain Alex Chang explain the clam to the Chinese National team in the yard outside through the window. Middlebury dork Peter Prial brags that he captained Pranksters to a tie with Wisconsin for 11th at Nationals, explaining the zone work of 7 vs 8 in practice. Off to the Czech castle and dinner for world cup Holland game as Dan Heijmen texts of his Netherworld heritage. Stories come out that Zip was yelling 'Yeah Boston" at 4am as he walks through the dorm, waking up players. It should be noted that 3 Chain players completely missed their game and a fourth showed at halftime.

A Russian bachorlette party hits on Seth-Ro, D-Hoel, and Nasser, with the wife claiming "this is my future husband." More antics as Jasper is bet $25 to race the tram up a 500 yard mega-hill at probably 35 degree elevation, only to get yelled at by the tram coming down the hill and then getting ICED. The Revolver party was basically canceled due to very early and difficult games to play next day. Hot Peppers!

However, Jimmy and Stubbs made an appearance and took it to the next level at the 5 story dance club again. As the night concluded, Foster and George trekked home on foot because they were both silly and without money. On the shortcut up the hill, J-Fo heard an animal and they scurried over to it. The hedgehog went into defensive mode, curling into a ball and not moving. Stubbs, wanting the hedgehog to move, tossed some grass on it. The startled hedgehog jumped and shivered, but did not move. Jimmy tosses grass on it again, the same result. Giggling in fits of laughter, they cover the scared shitless hedgehog in a pile of grass entirely.

The schedule just came up. Boston has games at 10:30, 2 and 5pm tomorrow. Ugh.

Boston made it to the different field site - now turf fields with a beautiful view. First up was a German team with a confusing zone defense. Nas made a sky D on the first point, but it traded to 2-2. Seth Reinhardt had a perfect under layout catch D and Dan Forrester ripped a nice upwind flick to Peter Prial as the lead stretched to 5-2. Muffin found Nasser who put a nice backhand to Trey for the sky and quick strike 7-3. A bladey downwind pull yielded half 8-3 with an end zone forced turn. Boston was in control all the way and finished 15-5. Germany gave us a vuzwella, reminding us who to cheer for in the soccer match tonight. Also tonight is jersey trade night. Colony from Australia is next up and then the Finnish team at 5pm. The winner of the pool probably gets Sockeye in quarters (hopefully a showcase game), while the second place finisher gets Revolver. Hot Peppers! I think my favorite part of this tournament is breaking the mark and hearing the marker swear in the language of his country -- classic.

The trading party started slow and then exploding in a frenzy. I dealt 4 jerseys and 2 wristbands in the first 20 minutes, and then snagged front row seats and a free beer from Ben Wiggins for the Spain-Germany soccer game. Amazing!

It is now 11:20 pm and we are begging for the cooks to reopen the kitchen and serve us soup. My mind is a pile of mush after 12 hours in the hot sun, because so much ridiculous shit happened today.

The Australian Champions Colony was our second game, their first of the day. They went zone mostly and Boston called probably 55 picks during the course of the game. The Aussies claimed there were gaps in the stack that we could water-ski behind them, Boston disagreed. Colony consistently scored on the break side and gave Ironside their first real challenge of the tournament (aside from Chevron). Rebholz ripped a huge hammer and Jasper shattered marks with his IO flick, but Australia was still up 4-5. Boston finally struck gold and stole back half 8-7. The game went 10-10, before Ironside broke twice to lead 12-10 on a Muffin to J-Fo connection. The final score went 15-13 in a stressful affair. Teddy re-cleated up and provided fresh legs while SethRo played until he coughed up blood.

The last game against the Finnish took place in slow motion. They took the early lead with huge layout grabs in the end zone as Boston continued to huck out the back from midfield. The language barrier was hilarious as their native tongue sounded mostly as gobbledygook. However, Ironside rallied and Boston stormed back for half 8-5. It was 13-10, when Ironside crushed in 2 late breaks to win 15-10. I'm so exhausted and the last pool play game is at 8:30am tomorrow. Quarterfinals against Sockeye are set for 6:15 as showcase game. Hot Peppers!

I'm not sure what day it is anymore. Boston has their last power pool game against Heads of State from Australia at 8:30am. Ironside has already won the pool by defeating Colony, so coming into the game, BI knows that it is not a must win. Regardless, any warm up at 8am sucks and our energy could not match Australia's. Boston misses an early huck badly as the offense looks disjointed and we are broken 0-1. Muffin hits Trey at the cone to make it 1-1. Ironside struggles to match Head's fire on defense, but Rebholz holds down the O with an O2 backhand ripper through the mark to Peter Prial 4-6. Australia, riding Jon McNauton's dirty accent, takes control 5-8. Danny Clark is nervous with a hamstring tweak and things look bleak for Boston. Hot Peppers! Finally, the score finds 8-11 and Boston burns a timeout. Coach Zalisk poses the question of the day -- we are gonna be out here regardless, do we want to put in the effort to do this or do we want to roll over? Goldstein pipes in, winner ice cream tastes better than loser ice cream. Purcel and Muffin punch each other multiple times and the decision is made -- we are winning this game. Ironside hits the intensity button and tweaks out as Dave Hoel gets 2 hand blocks and Peter Prial makes 3 D's in one point. Muffin puts a giant full field flick to Stubbs on O and Seigs gets a deep D and sick layout post D. Muffin murders a big backhand lazer right down the middle of the field to Peter Prial, yelling boom with the disc still in the air. Boston takes the game 15-12 as Heads of State is left to wonder what happened. Seth continued to cough up blood on the sideline and Seigs almost puked when given his allotment of Vegemite -- awful. Goldstein won his third MVP and Ironside took their meganap in anticipation of the showcase game against Sockeye at 6:15 in the showcase stadium!

Meanwhile, Doublewide is the first American team to lose to a non-American team by going down to the Swiss. However, drama erupted with the controversial finish. Firstly, the rules are pretty wack and the fields are super small. No observers makes for occasional cheating and the pick call is worthless, unless the common sense clause is evoked. Anyway, on golden goal point, Swiss catches the disc on the end zone line, calls himself in, does a victory lap and spikes it. Doublewide calls him straddle. A camera photo shows he straddled, so the spike is a turnover. 30 minutes later and much arguing and the TD called over, it went back and they scored it again to bump Doublewide out of quarterfinals and landing them in 9th place. Texas was seen moments later getting sloppy drunk as they were eliminated from contention.

Ironside vs. Sokai/Cockey/Sockey as the scoreboard teased. The fans thought the game was at 5:30 so they trickeled in and had the watch the full warm up. The crowd grew to probably 3,000 people with announcers and an air of anticipation that words now couldn't match. Hot Peppers! Ironside has the best warm up of the tournament as this is the first real elimination game. The teams stare each other down as Jolian and Chain encourage Boston. No one is cheering for Sockeye except maybe Riot. The game is intense from point one, but Boston punches first, leading 4-3 on a Nasser flick looping blade to a striding Chicken. However, Adam Simon tweaks his hamstring and is forced to leave the game. Sokai is making the points long -- and yelling "The boats rocking" when they finally get scored upon. Ryan Todd replies, "Because the boat is full of fish." The junk is working as Goldstein rips a huge backhand to Purcel for a break. Teddy Bowar gets his Jaw-in-mess when he takes a tooth through his cheek, spitting blood. When asking for ice, the medic replies it is in the truck, when asking for a towel, they reply there is none.. Seth Ro stalls Wiggins on the end zone line, using the little known travel-play-continues rule, but Ben ignores it and play goes on without an observer interjection at 6-4. The announcers are giving player's grief for stopping play with each travel, it goes mostly ignored. George Stubbs is running loose deep and Rebholz is bombing huge. Boston takes half 9-7ish. Goldstein steps up on O after Chicken goes down and plays awesome, getting a huge air D to save a break chance, as well as Matt Rebholz getting a layout poach D, also saving a break chance. However, Peter Prial misses a flick bomb to a wide open Jimmy Foster and wheels come off as Sockeye takes the lead 10-11. Trading ensures until Muffin is spiked on at the cone, the disc is respiked, although it should have been launched into the stands. Old man crazy Fleming makes the catch of his life deep and Sockeye is up 14-16 in a game to 17. Wiggins rips a flick to a wide open Skip, who begins his high stepping showboat, only for George Stubbs to accelerate and layout mack touch the disc, before Skip punches in the win 15-17. Awful. Ironside was in control, but unforced errors gave way -- very disappointing. Chicken was the most upset, not able to finish the game. Teddy won the MVP for taking stitches to his face and Boston ICED Skip for their MVP prize as he deserved it. Sewell, not an ICE veteran, choked twice, spit out half, and put up a weak effort, understandably so after a long game. Captain Todd consoled the team as best he could and was proud of the effort. Live blogging available here

Ironside had games to play the next morning at 8:30am so no sour pants drinking. Cockey had their team meeting outside the dorms and their game plan for Chain Lightning was overhead. "When Chain makes big plays, just smile. When they get D's and score, just smile." Very sneaky Sokai. Atlanta seemed over confident - only missing 2 dudes from last year as well as picking up Jolian and Sammy CK, 26 deep with entire lines over 6'2.

The semifinals were set - Revolver vs. Buzz Bullets and Chain Lightning vs. Sockeye, both at 8:30am with no other team's available to watch... lame!

Waking up this morning was awful. The repeated full warm-ups had taken their toll on the fifth straight day of playing. The 5th place bracket game against Canada's Invictus. Numbers of healthy players had dropped to barely manageable as Andrew Brown negotiates a game to 11 in order to "watch the best ultimate in the World." No arguments as semifinals were happening simultaneously. Canada struck first, taking a lead with nice breaks and spot on hucks to space 2-4. Points were hard fought despite increasing heat and early morningness. Boston took a win or go home attitude with tales of winner ice cream. Foster hauled in 3 goals and Muffin found Colthammer for 2 more as Boston responded 11-8.

Post game included a footrace to the main stadium. Once arriving Chicken and Seigs began discussing the Top 5 Hard Bodies of Ultimate. It turns out Chicken is wealth of ultimate information -- especially on the womens game. The pics were a bit Colorado heavy: Jolian, Mac, Beau, Hensley and maybe Faust, later deemed too flabby. Chain and Sockeye were exchanging blows on one field as Revolver had too much legs for the fading Buzz Bullets. Chain was in good position at 15-13, still on serve to win and just needing to hold. A Sammy-CK blade to a sliding Dylan is dropped now 15-14. Receiving to win, Swanson hucks a big backhand, but the narrow field does not help as Dylan skies Zip to throw the greatest. Sockeye is young and hungry, tying the game at 15-15. Not shying away from Chain's aggressive style, Jay Hammond rips deep but no dice as Sockeye is playing smothering gritty D. The cap is on, next point wins. Chain yields big unders in the heat and Tyler Kinney calls a timeout 10 yards out. Nate Castine wants the ball and goes wheel route for the Flying Squirrel rifle blade, which Castine leaps over the shoulder snag for the win. Chain is SHOCKED! What a comeback, I almost didn't feel as bad to losing to Sockeye for about a millionth a second. Revolver vs. Sockeye in the finals.

We made bets on the Buzz Bullet-Chain game, but it was obvious Atlanta was looking for the World Title and not third place. Boston slow plays Colony in the fifth place, asking to play to 13 rather than a full game to 17. Colony, feeling robbed after a close loss to Boston in the power pools, wanted another shot. With 5th place on the line and not wanting to lose to any team outside USA, Ryan Purcel was amped to play. Peter Prial was playing well on offense with Dan FunBoy moving the disc well 2-2. Colony was scoring deep 6-6 until Rebholz found his stride deep 7-6. Seigs blows the game up to half using a sneaky mis-direction force middle for the turnover and scoring quickly 9-6. Boston is down to 16 players, but hitting stride in the last game of the tournament. Rebholz is hitting Peter and Stubbs at will with backhand shots. Muffin sends a backhand ripper to Nas 12-7. Purcel sends a huge floaty flick pull and then follows it up with a better flick huck for a score 16-7 and finish it 17-7. We trade jerseys and settle in for the last of the Chain-Buzz Bullets finish. It was 9-8 half time to Japan and close all game. At 17-17, the Buzz Bullets hold with chilly offense and punch in a break to win 19-17. With only finals left to play, it's beer and soccer as the women's semis begin.

Women's semis was familiar foes Fury vs. Riot together and Uno vs. Brute.
Fury went up big 7-1 and looked to have the game in control. It tightened to 9-3, but Seattle made a big push 10-9. Fury punched back to lead 15-11 and finished 17-14. Brute kept it close 3-3, but faded quickly to 5-11 and 10-17.

The party was very fun, probably 3,000 people. We ordered beers 5 at a time, flutter guys proved aggressive. Table topping went down as Foster, Stubbs and Muffin were all nailed. Jimmy McMurray made an appearance! Skip was Iced, as was Stubbs by Kaela. The sneak midnight showing was rumored to be either Sting, David Hasselhoff, or Lady Gaga. Frances was probably ruffied and muffin fell asleep in the techno club while Jimmy was dancing on tables. Did I mention a 5 story dance club?

Surly made a finals appearance riding the big shoulders of Ron Kublanza, Big John Chandler, and a beastly Dave Boardman. The game was tied 11-11 before Troubled Past took the title 13-11. CLX won mixed over Canada 17-10 in the early round, which I slept in and missed a bus.

Fury vs. UNO was a ridiculous game. It was very cloese the whole way as UNO took half 9-8. The atmosphere was incredible, both teams playing very athletic, very fast. UNO's players all went to the same college and this same alumni team had been playing for 10 years, rumored to have been in Prague for a month practicing in the conditions. Very sunny and with increasing winds, Fury ties the game 14-14 with Alex Synder's smooth handling. Fury still needed a break to win and both team sensed the importance of the next point as the defensive intensity ramped way up. Fury strikes first with an awesome layout D. UNO responds with an over-the-shoulder layout D. The teams trade back-to-back-to-back-to-back incredible layout D's. The energy in the stadium was incredible as Fury took the lead 15-14. UNO ties it at 15-15 and keeps in the same line. Fury is on O for the win. A quick deep shot and the Bay Area takes down the title 16-15. Awesome game.

In the men's final, Seattle played hard and took an early lead 5-4, but soon gave way to a deeper Revolver. Mac Taylor, 5x silver medalist ('05, '07, '09, & 2nd place Callahan finish in college) finally earned a title, playing tight handler D on Wiggins and then going deep on the turnover 6-7. Beau showed off his high release flick and even launched a backhand huck which came back on a travel. Revolver was in control by halftime 6-9 and lengthened their lead as Bart Watson was hitting his deep shots. Watson also showed his faultless spirit as he called a foul on a throw to a poach D. The foul did not affect his throw and per WFDA rules, gave up the disc, playing with the best spirit. Mark Sherwood had a nice deep D and Beau had a ridiculous D in the end zone, turning on the speed to catch up right before half. Nate Castine played awesome for Sockeye, getting it to 10-13, but it was not enough to overcome the Bay Area final score 13-17. USA SWEEPS!

On a Sunny Afternoon

2010-06-24T14:38:00.006-06:00

It's possible that you have found yourself, sunning on a spotless day in your bedroom, alongside the nude figure of your significant other. The haphazard blinds, partially open, lay ribbons of light on her torso, and she steals a curious glance in your direction. Her smile wonders what crazy idea you're incubating. You likely turn to face her, return her smile, and begin caressing the inside of her buttocks.

If you have found yourself in this room, on this afternoon, it's likely nothing I am about to write will be any real news to you. Really, it's just one of those fleeting observations we have daily. For a second we connect to something directly in front of us, and move on. That's usually how I do it, at least. But every once in a while our attention can be caught askew, and our new angle of observation makes the obvious, for a moment, remarkable.

But there you are, it's a lazy weekend afternoon, you're still in bed although the slant of light is nagging you to move about your day, and the absolute stillness of the preceding morning has tuned your inner radio toward these otherwise ignored thoughts. The light is warm as you begin to trail downwards, finding the diaphanous wisps of rebellious hair escaping her ponytail down the length of her neck, the thumbprint-sized depression behind her clavicle, the slope of her breasts, the texture of her skin a fresh sheet of expensive cotton pulled smartly over a firm mattress - the king's chambers were never this inviting.

Her initial giggles and smiles have abruptly stopped, and you look up to find the corner of her lip is caught between her teeth, with the sensations below struggling to pull it out, though it threatens to egress with a whispered moan clutching its soft flesh, hidden in the damp warmth of her mouth. Her eyes are open but rolled back so that only a waxing slice of pupil can be seen, as if her sight was caught by the night sky and frozen there, alight, a week after the new moon.

It's all the cue you need to continue, and indeed I do, as you have before, I'm sure. She climbs on top of me, as eager as I am to cascade into each other, and begins to rock her hips. But I still have a cartoon grin drawn across my face, and she laughs again - a question - and brings her face down close. "What," she says, flatly but with play. Perhaps she's wondering why I'm making such an expression, the kind of grin so unflinching in face of circumstance that its devotion to my face pulls her from whatever mental recess she goes to when we have sex. I know exactly why that grin is there, and why it won't leave, and why I'm not asking it to. The grin is held in place by the hands of an idea, a realization of things that I have always assumed but never attended to. If I'd been able to both think these thoughts and speak them, I would have. I give a small try, but it proves to be one too many pins for my mind to juggle. My words catch and snag on awkward sentences which send them tumbling out of my mouth, and so I stop. We do not.

Afterward I sit down to collect my monologue before time's breeze enters and scatters my words away like oak leaves in autumn. If you've ever raked a lawn in the approaching harshness of an October afternoon in Wisconsin, you know you have to act quickly.

Detatch yourself for a moment, if you can, from the way this feels. From the physicality of it. For a moment, don't let the gentle tug of friction as I slide out of you and back in be the focus of your energies. Sex is almost always such an intense and inward thing, and the strength of touch such that it can snuff out other communication. So, just now, just look at us, and what we're doing, as if from the corner of the bed.

On such as sunny afternoon it shouldn't be difficult. Today's sky and all its daring lighting cast us in shades and tones that are unusual for this activity. Denuded by the fog of a hot shower, or fleshed out and silhouetted by a sleepy jaundiced streetlamp; these are the hues of lovemaking we're used to. Today though, the bright and playful sun has carved us into such stark relief that it's possible, for a moment, to pretend you've walked into a room where two lovely strangers were enjoying themselves. That you are a witness to, as much a participant of, lovemaking. It's an easy enough exercise with the slightest bit of will, and imagination. Here I am, your lover, normally painted in Fauvist blotches of indigo and violets and heated with slivers of unconfident light, now filled in with brash strokes of rose and peach and glowing white in my desire. I could be any one. And you, below me and flushing with effort, the color of your flesh shifted within the frame of mine, could be anyone. So if you have managed to remove yourself from the physical sensation of the sex between us you might begin to see two people, just any two people, working their way to a deep rouge while enjoying each other's company.

Now, before closing your mind to this new path and losing yourself again in your accelerating gyrations, hold that thought close to you and guard it like a candle flame outdoors, while reconnecting with your body, so that like staring into a mountain lake, you can see both yourself and its depth clearly and simultaneously.

I know I sound far too often like a crazed idiot, disconnected from reality and spouting soft philosophy. I know this. Bear with me, because trying to explain how I feel and what I am thinking is a bit like writing instructions on viewing a Magic Eye 3-D portrait; the words might make perfect sense to you but the meaning won't until you relax your sight and discover the image for yourself.

In this moment, slowly syncing our hips, the sine waves of our thrusting written on the sheets as a seismograph of bodily fluid, I feel not only my enjoyment at the sex we are having, but also a deep love and connection with all couples everywhere losing themselves into each other in the same way. I connect our tiny arc into the giant piebald circle of love and procreation. The myriad positions, the desires, the insecurities and taboos, we are by our participation in this postmeridian copulation also a witness to all instances prior of same.

And I guess, if you're not understanding me, that that might seem kinda weird. Perv, you might call me. Distracted, others have. But it's a difficult thing to express, that with each thrust, giggle and smile, I hear and see each giggle and thrust that humanity has created, and will eventually. And it's harder still, feeling thus connected , not to giggle and smile back.

More on Semantics

2010-03-10T23:32:00.000-07:00

Continuing from some ideas on the last post -

Your player/teammate just made a bone-headed turn-over on the field. Getting the disc back is imperative: What do you say to them, or in general?

I like:
Let's get this back!
I'm going to get this turn!
I got your back, bro!

I avoid:
Go get it back!
(Name of Player)!!! GRRRRR!!!
Anything derisive.

When I'm playing and a teammate turns it I tell them that I've got their back and that I'm going to get the D. Then I play D as hard as I can. I've found that it's an effective way of slyly (and in a positive manner) guilting them into shaking off the mistake and getting on their horse. Shouting "Go get it back!" will often negatively tighten younger college players who, upon being singled out, only feel their mistake highlighted.

On the other hand, telling him that you're going to get it back has a much different effect. Here he ise, having messed up and obviously knowing it. He expects a backlash, but what he gets is an example of his teammate selflessly offering to right their mistake. He feels his team's support, but more importantly he sees his buddies working to right an error he made. As bad as he might feel about his mistake, a quick and personal mental calculation tells him it's nothing compared to how he will feel if his buddies bust their ass for him and he just lags pissing and moaning. He sets his jaw, he decides he's going to man up for his own error, and we're off, 7 men playing their best D only moments after a turn.

I've had a bunch of these little questions floating around the back of my head this past year as captain of a natties club team and coach of a college champion hopeful. I think next I'm going to write a little about the thin line separating Being Angry from Being Intense, and why it's important to try as much as possible to tap into the latter and avoid the former.

Team Leadership Semantics

2010-03-09T21:34:00.000-07:00

As a high school educator and a college coach, the skills necessary to recruit young minds toward the task at hand overlap nicely between my paying profession and my playing one. I work as support staff for an ESL department here in Madison, and in that capacity get to sit and observe many of the teachers at my school. I see how the good teachers engage their students in the process of learning, and watch as lessons become exercises in fun engagement.

I also, sometimes, have to sit through classes with teachers that are downright horrible, lacking patience, tolerance, understanding, you name it. I'm with one such teacher now, sadly for the rest of the school year, and I get to see the miraculous way she can turn a tiny infraction into a momentous occasion, inviting the entire class to sit and witness her control of the situation dissolve in a fury of adult whining. I'm almost embarrassed for her, that I have to be there in the classroom while she performs these transformations, but they're so much a part of her teaching style that she seems indifferent to my gaping mouth in the back of the class, sitting next to the ESL students.

"You're trying my patience! I need you to blah blah! I need everyone to blah blah! I want this! I need that! I need I need I need I want I want I want!"

She goes on and on, making these demands, that the students give her exactly what she wants whether she explained it well or not, as if by virtue of the existing power structure and her being the Teacher, all students are obliged and do exactly as she says or get layered with opprobrium. Let me make this clear: she fucking blows, and the entire class knows it.

So where's the Ultimate? I'm getting there. You see, this woman thinks that by virtue of her position she should be obeyed, so her interactions with the students rest on this pillar of her pedagogy. But what if, as the students are more than happy to demonstrate, they don't give a shit about what she says? What is going to motivate the students to want to improve then?

At the beginning of the season I made what is, at face value, a very small semantic request. I asked the captains and officers that, whenever addressing the team, be it practice, huddle, or email, that we never use the singular first person. That we never begin with "I need..." or "I want you to..." The frame for what follows requires that the listener be vested in the speaker and his authority, and that they place their own wants and needs below those of the speaker. And that kinda works, sorta. HS students know they need to do their work, and players know they need to work out and practice, so to the extent that they know it necessary they'll follow along. But what if your goal is not to just have them do what is minimally required, but to inspire and motivate them to do their best, every time?

What I asked is that we frame every address to the team in the team's terms. Some players might not like me personally, and I know some Hodags would love to flick a captain or officer in the nuts, hard, if given the chance. But every one of them wants the team to succeed, to win. So we say:

"You need to..."
"The team needs..."
"We have to..."
"Let's all..."

It's a small quibble, maybe just a little something to make a fuss over; a single word change. But I'm convinced it makes a difference, as we repeat it practice after practice, huddle after huddle, one word change become a thousand word choices over a season's time. If you as a coach make it about you, players are invited to take you or leave you. But they're not on the team because you're the coach, or the captain. You ain't that special. They're on the team because they love playing Ultimate, love being on a team, and want to work hard for the team so that they may personally feel more accomplished. If they hear that you need them to try harder, their inner monologue gives you a parenthesized "fuck you". You work harder, bitch.

But listen to the difference. Say instead, "We're slacking. When we showed up at tryouts and went around the circle after making the team, we all promised each other we wouldn't shy from the hard work. We knew there would be hard work, challenges. Here's one, right now. Right fucking now. So we can go back on our promises to ourselves, to each other, or we can sack the fuck up and play with some heart. The team is better than this. We are better than this. Right now, we have to work harder."

At my high school it's never about me. When I enforce rules they're never enforced because I want them to be. We do things in my office because the students are there to learn to be winners. They want to be winners, they want to be great. I remind them of this desire they have, this picture of themselves they hold in their head. You want to be a beast. You said you wanted to go to college. This is what it takes. It takes hard work. I'm here to help you not quit on yourself. You need to put your head down and put in the time, for you, right now. I see that person you want to be, poking out from within you; now sit down, focus, and let the beast loose. You deserve it; you owe it to yourself. Do it for you.

I don't know if it works or not, I'm just convinced it does. I'm pretty popular with kids these days.

Location

2010-03-04T20:01:00.000-07:00

I'm at the airport in the Minnie getting ready to board the flight out to SFO for the "Stanford Invite." There are ten of us here and we're all anxious to get out to the West Coast and bring our best against the best. Let's bro.

The Fear of Failure

2010-03-03T23:14:00.004-07:00

The Fear of Failure - Over-training, Mental Fortitude, and Confidence

Yesterday was the first day in nearly 4 months that I felt tired. It wasn’t the kind of tired that my legs feel, or the kind that leaves me gasping for breath. It was a mental fatigue, leaving my motivation and conviction on the wayside, begging the question, “What’s the point?” It was the first day since Club Nationals, in the doldrums of the off-season, that my awareness finally mumbled, “Enough.” I might have asked my legs to push again, but my heart wasn’t in it. I slowed down, stopped, and within minutes found myself puking out everything in my system; maybe half a cup of water. As I dragged myself from the gym I couldn’t shake a specific memory. It was the last weekend of October in Sarasota and my body was melting in the heat. It sucked my energy, ate away at my leg strength, and collapsed my breathes. I couldn’t beat it, I hadn’t trained properly.

That was the first realization I recalled on the plane ride home – I had been neither mentally nor physically prepared. I thought back in anger of my off-season. Four months of crutches, two months of biking & calf raises, and then just the last four months of scattered practices, countless skipped drills and usually just one cleat on. On that plane ride home, I thought only of time evaporated and opportunities missed. At Nationals, I had over 400 touches, but probably played one of the least memorable tournaments of my life. The frustration and regret consumed me and I decided to remedy that mistake this season.

Confidence is one fickle fellow.
When you have it - nothing can stop you.
When you lose it - it's impossible to find again.

I've always been cocky, confident, and sure of my ability.
Any competition brought out the best in me.
Losing was not an option and I believed in myself unconditionally.
I could accomplish anything I set my mind to and I attacked every challenge with this attitude.
I never gave myself a chance to doubt my talent or physical abilities because deep down, I wholeheartedly believed in myself.

And then, for perhaps the first time in my life - I lost confidence on Thursday October 29, 2009. A week prior to Club Nationals, I majorly tweaked my back in the weight room dead lifting. I was barely cleared to play after seeing a chiropractor 7 days in a row, and entered Nationals without a workout or throw to my name for a whole week. Highly uncharacteristic. I hid every ounce of weakness and pain from all but a few of my closest confidants. I didn't want any excuses.
As Madison prepared for Sockeye, I quickly realized two things: 1) my change of direction was hampered, and 2) my throws were not perfect. As a primary handler -- these are pretty big problems. I discarded these concerns and played the best I could. With the score tied 7-7, I finally flinched, throwing 2 poor turnovers, allowing Seattle to steal half.

It was a like a fire extinguished. I lost confidence in myself. Unlike the hundreds of times before, where my 10 second memory simple erased the outcome, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had let down my teammates. I couldn't recover -- I had lost confidence in myself. It is almost an impossible feeling to describe. With the inner coals barely flickering, it was very difficult to... feel right again. I knew how I was supposed to recover, but I was finding no path to that outcome.

After one week of swine flu post-Nationals, I began training with a new found tenacity – to make up for lost time. I decided the best way to fight my demons would be to kill it as hard as possible. I pieced together a three month workout routine correctly named “Kick Me in the Face.” Over the next 84 days, I practiced/trained/lifted/sprinted for 144 hours. The rest of my time was spread thin between work, Bella, Hodags, and high school wrestling. My tactic of choice was fully committing to my best effort for every exercise of each practice session, and if needed, to recall the pain of under-performing last season. It was all I ever needed to remember. I battled countless workouts and buckets of sweat, clinging to a couple of motivational lines hot on my mind, “Be the change I want to see in myself. Give my best effort! Eagerly accept the hard work and pain – visualizing my desired result.” The reaffirmation of my goals worked and I trained onward.

The one motivation that always keeps me pushing is the fear of failure. Once I set a goal – it is mine to achieve. Nothing can stop me, except for… me. And for the first time in four months, I slowed my pace and eventually waited, pondering any excuse good enough to stop. I tested my muscles, but found my body felt the strongest it’s ever been. I tested my fortitude to continue, but found only stale disappointment and doubt for my certainty. Motivation was blurring just as the end-goal was blurring. Frustration at my weakness, disappointment in myself, and the corresponding lack of willpower all swept into the most powerful emotion I could understand – the fear of failure. Would it be easier to quit than to attempt and ultimately fail?

Instead of giving up, I resorted to the internet to answer my questions about over-training and rest cycles. I read sentences screaming weakness and fluffy-soft excuses, as if written for mid-30’s house wives. Their symptoms of over-training seem normal for anyone working out seriously. They don’t convince me to stop. Instead I tracked down individual stories – legends of Dan Gable and Apollo Ohno who train up to five or eight hours a day for their athletic goals. I ask myself what makes them so strong? If they can do it, why can’t I? I was coming closer to the answer I needed.

If I really want it, neither physical nor mental roadblocks should stop me. The fear of failure – should only make me push harder. The disappointment from last year should only fuel my fire and drive my hunger to be better than that. Here is to the off-season and to learning from my mistakes.

Nudge Nudge

2010-02-03T16:27:00.000-07:00

I finally got around to giving the Winter 2009 UPA magazine a thorough look over. I found something that tickled me.

It was obvious to me, and anyone else that knows anything about club ultimate, that when it started coming out that Chase would be playing co-ed (I mean, mixed) this club season, that whatever team had just acquired him off marriage/move waivers would be the next Club Mixed Champion. Pardon me if that seemed like too big a leap in logic to assume. When it turned out that Axis of C'Ville won, I decided the right thing to do would be to feign a polite surprise.

Now several months removed from that finals and looking at page 22 of the newsletter, I find that my practiced reaction was entirely unnecessary. Chase was in on the joke too. Find him now, tucked away in the top left corner of the picture. There he is, giant smile upturned at its right corner, reaching up toward that eye. And there is that eye, crows' feet dangling downward, cinched shut while the left remains open in a near universal piece of code: the wink. The wink, that flash of facial expression to bring you in on an inside joke shared only by winker and, now, you. Telling you, hey, I'm not being entirely serious here. I am telling a joke. And indeed he is.

Look at him there, winking, telling you, a bit sheepishly, "yes, I know. I shouldn't be here. I make Mixed ultimate look like a summer camp dodgeball game between grade schoolers and counselor. This is Julius Peppers putting on pads today against some Pop Warner cast-offs. This is them running into the inmovable object and trying to push. I, too, feel like I'm cheating. Just a little bit. Just a little bit." Wink.

I imagine, too, that on the picture to its left, Zach Eastlund is looking into an unknown distance resigned to a fate that, only moments ago, he was hoping to avoid. As the disc hung there, gently tabling off and both he and Chase in hot pursuit, he may have found himself thinking of Sisyphus and three short feet from the mountain's ridge, heavy boulder in tow. Perhaps today, perhaps mere moments from now, the rock will make it to the top. But it slips away, and Chase tallies another goal, and both Zach and Sisyphus purse their lips and get angry for having allowed themselves the luxury of hope.

Wink.

Spring Semester in Session

2010-02-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

Tuesday was the first day of classes for Spring Term ‘10 at the University of Wisconsin. As the students flooded the downtown streets again there were a select few who had their inner eye pointed toward a place far from Ag Hall or Memorial Library. For these students, Van Hise is not a foreign language center but a set of stairs, Bascom Hall not a building but a finish line. Yesterday they walked Charter and Mills and University, but their minds were already strolling Bellagio, Luxor, Flamingo. They have only two weeks to wait until their feet follow suit, and until those feet transition from restless leg syndrome on the Strip to relentless legs syndrome on the field.

Harsh Wisconsin winters are known for their calculating culling of herds, and this year’s winter has already been harsh on the Hodags. Four of our number have gone down, one a rising star now tethered for the season, the other one of our most experienced players, the Brain to many a teammate’s Pinky, putting aside his quest for world domination until his ACL is healed. The other two found life too difficult to juggle with all of Ultimate's pin already up in the air and bowed out. With one numb gust we went from wondering how to manage 27 studs to wondering how many more of the 23 remaining go down.

It wasn’t all bad news. For once, we sent a Jewish teammate to Israel and he actually came back. The addition of Masler to the corps of defensive handlers will serve stiffen its cloth with the starch of experience, and increase the intensity as an already crowded defensive squad fights to earn playing time. With two weeks remaining until our first outdoor tourney of the spring, with each game a rock on the tipping scale of this year’s strength bid allocation, with the feel of a warm piece of plastic pinched between fingers and thumb fading into memory, the Hodags turn to the two things that never lack, the only two things they can count on during the eternal winters, the only two things that strengthen while nature weakens and wilts: their will and their legs.

At our two fall tournaments we opened the lines into two tiers of playing time. The players on the offensive line ranked among our most experienced, veterans that can be counted to conserve when the timing is crucial, miserly with turnovers regardless of pleasure. These 9 played nearly every offensive point, and at CCC showed that they can do it well when their games dovetail downfield. That left 14 sets of legs on defense, a vicious and tireless centipede ready to walk over any offense. They did not disappoint.

Now, we’re 3 days removed from our first spring trip. We’ve been sizing ourselves up against our teammates for such a long, claustrophobic winter that it’s difficult to predict how we’ll fare against teams that have the opportunity to throw, play, and just be outside. Still, it’s Vegas, and we’re feeling more than lucky.

First Half Done

2009-12-22T01:46:00.000-07:00

This year’s fall season is over now. Two tournaments in, the substantial problems that we’ll face as a team have come to bubble at the surface, where hopefully hard work and focused diligence will be able to skim them off our surface and allow our team game to shine.

Before I agreed to coach the Hodags this year, I made a list of a few things that I wanted to accomplish in the coming year. But before I could implement any of the culture-wide changes, I had to make sure that I would have the authority to do so. A year prior, I had returned to Madison and wanted to make myself available to the team as a resource. I knew I’d have some time on my hands and wanted to remain close to Wisconsin Ultimate and the friendships I’d forged there.

There was a small obstacle standing in the way, however. Muffin, fresh off his final year of eligibility and back-to-back championships, also wanted a role. Despite never having been chosen as captain of the team, his (let’s say) commanding personality was such that he was able to drive and direct a large part of the team’s focus toward what he saw as the most important goals. His methods for doing this were, to touch it lightly, a bit heavy-handed, and after his class’ graduation the new veterans on the team were eager to stamp the Hodags with their own style of play and leadership. It’s a delicate balance to shift roles from player to coach, especially when attempting to coach former teammates, and these new veterans, long overshadowed by the dominant players the program had churned out the few years prior, weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to relinquish their control right back to the man who’d held it like a choke-chain over them for the last two seasons. Finding the right balance between using Muffin for his experience and forging their own path would require an even hand, patience, an open mind, and a splash of finesse.

These are all qualities that Muffin possesses, but his application of them has always fallen outside our sport. My first summer back, on countless last calls at the Big Ten Pub and other bars, there he’d be, voicing the vets’ worst fears in a tone that was impossible to read as serious or playful.

“I’m gone fucking coach you guys and there’s nothing you can do about it. Try to stop me.”

Their apprehension at hearing this was such that, when the season began and it came time to delineate roles and responsibilities, they all but cut him from the picture. In a meeting with the both of us to discuss what we’d do for the team, they asked me to help coach and plan with them. Muffin was not given much room at all, not even to do what he does best; plan and implement the team’s fitness program. In a move that puzzled me, they asked that he 1) train Shemoans to be the team’s new fitness coordinator and 2) not go to any of the actual workouts.

I understood their desire to build a new identity with them as the central force, but it felt like throwing the baby out with the bathwater (or, actually, it felt like they were so afraid of Muffin’s reaction to being denied that they wanted to reject him without actually having to utter the word ‘no’). What ended up happening was that Muffin and I were both sidelined and our input rarely solicited, and we had little to do at the practices we attended beyond watching and shouting from the sides. What also developed (I think to everyone’s surprise) was a new, (slightly) gentler Muffin, eager to help and ready to put in work. Being removed from affecting the outcome of a game directly allowed Muff to step back and look at the game with more brain and less brawn, and he grew up in the process. However, the Hodag ship is a mighty vessel, and she doesn’t turn on a dime. By the time everyone realized what Muffin and I could have provided, the season was over and Club tryouts were days away.

It wasn’t all a loss, though. The potential help did not go unnoticed, and after a club season where I was able to prove my chops in designing and running practices the team asked me to take on a much more substantial and formal role as their coach. Muffin’s own attributes didn’t go unused either. Eager to make the final leap from a group of coulda-beens to did-its, Belladonna asked Muffin to bring his singular fire and passion and try to pass it down to girls on the cusp of breaking out.

Tonight is the fall Blue/Black scrimmage, always an opportunity to gauge where we are individually and as a team before breaking for the holidays with a list of to-dos. The team is hungry and I’m eager to put in work, and our weekend in Chattanooga showed us that, while we’re not where we’d like to be, we’re at least not as far behind as we feared. Four months of throwing indoors can spoil us in the same way a diet of sweets does, and we have work to do in zone and transition to get to where we want to go.

Where we want to go, obviously, is only a few miles from Madison’s picturesque capitol: Breese Stevens, location of this year’s College Championship game. The motivation that comes from hosting natties cannot be underappreciated, and you can see it in eyes of the Hodags as they prepare to run their last set of sprints, and in the bottom of the Shell’s trashcans afterwards. Halfway done with the school year, and tough, but enjoyable, challenged lie ahead. We’ll be ready.

Club Nationals

2009-10-28T23:05:00.013-06:00

The UPA Club Championships begin in 9 hours.
I couldn't be more excited. Tons of coverage, live scores.

Thursday
Round 1 - Sockeye
Madison breaks to begin the game. The sun is scorching in clear skies. Sockeye quickly breaks back, trading to 4-4. The Fish play very poachy, taking chances for D's and along with the breakdowns. Nate Bosscher rips a huge flick to Skittles as Murder Club led 7-6. Sockeye was clutch, holding on offense and breaking to take half 7-8. Equally as tough was losing a break out of half, now down 7-9. Club revamped the energy and matched Sockeye's newfound intensity pushing the game 9-9. Ben & Seth Wiggins both played well as Seattle led 11-13. To the very last points, there were multiple turns and marathon points in the heat, both teams exchanging blows. Taking the full two hour round, Sockeye closed 12-15 as Bravo watched on, having already taken down Machine 15-9.

Round 2 - Bravo
Club breaks to begin the game in a slow warm-up jog. The heat is significant - near 90 and easily 75% humidity. Bravo plays with fire and energy, breaking to lead 2-4 with quick strikes. Bravo increases the pressure and Madison misses 3 clear up-wind strikes on risky looks as Colorado storms to half 4-8. The sideline is beaten, Madison's spirit shocked. Only when Club relaxed, did the energy reappear and the score close to 10-13. Bravo finished strong 11-15, as Sockeye did the same to Machine.

Round 3 - Machine
Club owned Chicago all season, but Nationals was a different story as Machine broke to lead 0-2. Murder Club fought disc movement against zone defenders to make it 3-4. The sun was melting players, as both teams suffered from cramps. Probably 20 substitutions were made down the stretch. Machine took a 12-9 lead in the stiff wind on Tim Holt's rocket upwind flick. Murder Club had a goosebumps moment in the huddle and decided to win. The universe line appeared as Club overpowered to 13-13. With a chance to win after a ruled D, a non-in hand-off was called shenanigans as Machine tied it 15-15. Seth Meyer makes two straight baller plays and skies for the winning goal off a Feldman Floater giving Madison the 17-15 win.

Madison Club plays Madcow and Jam in the first two rounds tomorrow morning...

Friday
Round 1 - Madcow
Ohio breaks first and steals the early energy, leading 2-4. Madison responds to make it 6-6 before yielding half. Both teams find a rhythm on offense going upwind, trading to 13-13 without a turnover. Madcow receives on universe point 16-16 and manages another cutter flick bomb for the win 16-17.

Round 2 - Jam
Despite the letdown, Madison can still makes prequarters in a win over Jam and a Machine win over Madcow. Jam looks exhausted, but plays efficient offense -- taking a quick 1-4 lead and stretching to a 2-6 advantage. Madison digs deep and puts on a break train to make it 7-7, before dropping a disc for half. Idris gets angry with Jake Meyer's excessive contact down field and begins jawing at Jake half an inch from his face. Veteran Jadon sees it going down and bombs into the situation, side-checking Idris and earning the team's first PMF. The excitement only fired up Murder Club. Jam played better in the second half, taking a slight lead 10-12 and pulling away late 12-15. The outcome of the day depended on Machine's finish with Madcow as it was universe point, Machine receiving. Tyson Park ripped a big backhand and Machine shoved in a stuff-and-score to win, sending Madison into second place in the pool and into the bracket for ninals and 11th.

Saturday
Round 1 - GOAT
Canada took an early lead 1-4, looking solid. Madison broke back to 6-6, then lost half 6-8. With more motivation to battle in the heat, GOAT was still upset about going down to Bravo in prequarters after being up 12-8. With efficient deep shots the Defense made plays down the stretch, winning 12-11.

Ninals - Truckstop
The fourth game against Truckstop started like all the rest as Truck hit big shots and went up 2-4. Madison used gritty D to make it 6-6, before losing half 6-8. The score evened at 9-9, game to 2. Hector Valdivia subbed himself into the game and then made a ridiculous leaping layout D on a high swing pass. Madison couldn't convert losing 9-11 and settling for 10th in a World's qualifying year.

The women's final was an exposition of Fury's dominance. Cree Howard was catching Georgia Bosscher hucks constantly. Alex Synder was moving the disc fast and their team speed was overpowering, winning 15-3.

Belladonna Title Chances in 2010?

2009-09-14T12:42:00.020-06:00

Muffadonna? Yeah, that's happening.

The Wisconsin ladies are going to win so many games this year; but will they win the last one? That is the big question heading into the 2010 season.

In some regard, Belladonna is the new girl on the block. Since the 2004 season, Wisconsin held serious Nationals aspirations and loads of talented players to match. But Bella hadn't quite turned the page and faced a tough Regionals tournament -- as a Miranda Roth Carleton and a Saucy Nancy Iowa team took both bids in the Central. Wisconsin's lack of total commitment to the season added to their late season demise, despite strong players in Jill Hutchinson, Corrine Wade, Dana Gerrits, and Anna Schott.

Bella restocked the roster in 2005 and allowed former Hodag Captain Matt Ley to try coaching. Wisconsin was searching for an edge and wanted any added help to qualify for the big dance. The task was met with mixed results and imploded into a hot mess as Carleton and Iowa once again edged out Wisconsin come Regionals. One thing was for sure, Wisconsin had big time star power in dominators like Holly Gruenke, Chelsea Witte, Betsy Calkins, Anne Bosscher, and Courtney Kiesow -- all new faces in 2005. The disappointment was clear and the team responded positively in 2006, playing the club season with 10 dedicated Bella returners. The core veterans had their goals on lock down and increased their conditioning, preparing to ride the legs of 12 studs all season.

Finally to the point, the 2006 Belladonna team was a dominant force in every aspect of the word. Wisconsin was something like 42-3 going in the final weekend of the season, having tied or beaten the Hodags finish at every tournament both teams attended. It was a rivalry, as alumni joked that Belladonna would finish better than the Hodags that season. It wasn't a laughing matter as far as the boys were concerned. Holly Gruenke and Dana Gerrits captained well, guiding Belladonna as they crushed Carleton in finals of Regionals 13-8, taking the #4 seed into Nationals. It was in Columbus, Ohio that Bella finally outlasted their quarterfinals curse, barely. In pool play, UC-Davis had built a 13-8 advantage, but forgot how to score in the closing moments, as Belladonna stormed back to win 14-13. It was the golden year -- nothing could go wrong. Wisconsin faced Florida in quarters in an exciting game. Bella struck last on the hard cap 16-14, as Schott ripped a blade flick to Courtney on the break side for the win, shortly after Holly Gruenke went down with a high ankle sprain. Wisconsin had pushed into semifinals and met a high-flying Stanford team. Bella was effectively crushed 15-5, and that was the closest they've been to finals since.

The 2007 season was captained by Holly and Courtney and was destined for glory. With high hopes, solid performances, and practically a phenomenal season - Belladonna was once again very good with the likes of Georgia, Schott, Claire Mowbray, Laura Bitterman, Frances Tsukano, Shira Klane, and Megan Vingers. The season was going to plan as Bella rocked Carleton in Regional finals 14-5 in a windy mess. Wisconsin rolled into Nationals with the #2 seed, in perfect position.

However, after two easy wins in pool play; Bella met a hot UBC team, in which the momentum swings were too much too overcome, losing late 15-13. That meant a pre-quarters game against San Diego and worse yet, a match-up with #1 seeded UCLA in quarters. Wisconsin lost in a close-tough battle, something 14-12, but were obviously crushed internally! One small miscue of focus in a single game was the eventual downfall of their season.

The 2008 team was re-loaded with young talent and hungry for a title. I watched the indoor running practices, saw girls lifting in the weight room, and soon recognized their desire to win. Bella was mimicking the Hodags efforts and in several cases, surpassing their efforts over the winter months. On several occasions I turned to Bucket and said, "They want it bad." His jerk-grin kidding smile replied, "Too bad they won't get it." I didn't have a response for that..
Courtney Kiesow and Georgia Bosscher captained as Emelie McKain and Jenny Gaynor joined the team. Wisconsin won the Central for a third straight year and was awarded the 5th seed at Nationals. Bella escaped a nail-biter against Texas before taking in a huge loss to Washington in pool play! That outcome left most of Belladonna scratching their heads, wishful thoughts of full field hucks and the over-the-top fun intensity Washington exhibited. Madison was blindsided and had to overcome a tough Oregon in pre-quarters 15-12, just to play Santa Barbara in quarterfinals -- losing again 15-12. There was no good explanation. How had everything unraveled again, after such a strong regular season? Why couldn't Belladonna get over the hump?

Finally, 2009 arrived and the leadership core of the team expanded, as a plethora of veteran players wanted input. It was still Courtney and Georgia captaining, but McKain and Shira were also co-captains as Holly coached and called lines. However, the leadership was hardly a concern as the Belladonna roster was dirty-girl after dominator; the skill level nearly identical to the 2006 squad as Sandy Jorgenson, Rebecca Enders, Becca Ludford, and Amber Sinicrope joined the team. The real story of 2009 was that the full force of Georgia Bosscher and Amber Sinicrope would be felt by their opponents and that was no joke. It's like having Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen on the floor as the same time -- two game-changing dominant players! Moreover, Wisconsin did just about everything right last season, winning Regionals and gaining the #3 seed at Nationals, using the same principles of hard work and a tight-knit team as 2006. Belladonna held seed at Nationals in pool play, winning their games decisively and looking very fast and very scary. Madison took their bye into quarterfinals against Stanford, with their eyes looking forward to semifinals, as they played well to start. Bella was taking it to Stanford initially up 3-1, before 4-4, but taking it to half 8-6. Just after half, the Hodags left to warm-up for their game, which was also against Stanford in quarterfinals. I wasn't able to see the second half, but here was the gist of the story given to me as I absorbed it 4 months ago.

"On a similar note, Belladonna finished their season with clear disappointment.. I watched the first half and saw Belladonna's superior speed and veteran presence in Bosscher and Brute Squad. Belladonna looked dominant, but Stanford was calling everything. The last sequence I saw, Stanford threw a 20 yard backhand into the end zone landing 7 yards OB out the side. During the throw the cutter tangled feet with the Belladonna defender, nearly 6 yards from the end zone line. The foul is called as both players trip, but the throw, which was laser-ed forward, out-of-bounds and clearly uncatchable. Somehow, the call goes to the Observer, who inexplicably rules foul and the disc on the line. That was shady. At best it was a feet tangle; foul - contest. But on this specific play, the disc was clearly way OB and there would be no play on the disc whatsoever. Neither call was within 10 yards of where the disc landed! Hector commented that he saw 2 foul calls upheld that he thought were without a doubt - not a foul. He was so sure - he encouraged the call to go to the observer. The statistician noted that Stanford made a possession saving call on 13 of their 15 goals. When the game finished, the observer who had been ruling against Belladonna all game went over, hugged and kissed the Stanford coach and then began hugging and chatting with Stanford players. If that was my final season - I would want some answers."

That was the explanation to Bella's frustration as they lost 13-15. Down the stretch, it was their best players not being able to execute on critical plays when it mattered the most. Excuses were made, but at the most important moment of the season, they failed to execute. It was shocking to me when they lost. Wisconsin had done everything to prepare, believing they had the talent and the roster to succeed. Belladonna had now been exceedingly close, again. Painfully close, but turning the corner at Nationals is never an easy task.

It is now Fall 2009 and it's safe to say that Bella is crazy motivated and pretty disappointed with last season's finish. They considered themselves a semifinalist at worst and once again fell in quarterfinals, in a heartbreaking loss.

The questions were too much. Bella needed a different answer. It was actually at Nationals that (Anna) Schottie told me I should coach Belladonna next season. I actually laughed at the idea, the first I had heard of it, and was instantly like, no way. It was a ludicrous idea. The Hodags owned Brand Muffin.

But suddenly, the rumor on the street was Muffin coaching the women. It began as wishful thinking, but was soon materializing into full contact negotiations. The asking price for a Love Muffy is no fair bargain. Muffin's rights would only be relinquished from the Hodags for 6 team picks and 3 player evaluations to be named in the future. It didn't take long to realize what was happening. It was a coup, as Muffin was being asked and pressured to coach on a daily basis. Belladonna now wanted it badly enough to swallow their pride and ask for help.

I took about a full month considering it. What was Belladonna lacking? The fact of the matter remained that in 2008, Wisconsin has the roster to do it. They had underachieved their talent despite working extremely hard throughout the season. Wisconsin had developed their young players and seen the Hodags success first hand -- with eager eyes from just a field space away usually. Belladonna had trained harder than the Hodags in 2008 and were a self-sustaining tight-knit community of support -- completely focused on Nationals.

Bella's downfall seemed to be that the weave of knowledge was passed mainly from player to player - captains to successors -- with little outside perspective. Different ideas were scarce and mistakes were repeated. Enter Muffin: two-time National Champion, three time finalist.
With a presence stronger than a 600 pound gorilla, Muffin brings a completely different perspective to the women's game and an attitude to match.

Muffin brings intangibles that are difficult to define on paper, mostly an iron will and a strong work ethic. I expect this season to be the most difficult and perhaps the most rewarding. I will most likely ask more of these girls than they even know their capable of. I will ask for more time per week than an NCAA sub-committee would approve. Ultimate will become another class - complete with study packets, homework assignments, and walk-through visualization rehearsals. Beyond that, intensity and confidence will radiate from Belladonna this year. Wisconsin will also hold a mental edge scarcely seen in the women's game as Malecek is always thinking, plotting, and setting up. It is a recognized gamble for both parties as Muffin has regularly been cited for emotional outbursts at Hodag practice. For Belladonna, feelings might get hurt, egos shattered, and old traditions dismantled -- only for the whole to be reassembled -- more efficient and deadly than ever.

With dawning comprehension as the rumor spread it was questioned how George and Bourtney could so willing give up control to Muffin? How many practices until 2 girls cry? As it turns out, it took the full binding power of a G-5 Summit to allow Muffy absolute veto power. So finally, here is the confirmation to the rumors on the street -- mostly proliferating from Ted Tripoli's nightmares; Muffadonna is for real.

The best part is that Wisconsin will have ammo to spare in 2010, even after graduating Callahan Courtney (Nemesis). The 2009 All Region returners from Wisco include Georgia Bosscher (Fury), Emelie McKain, Laura Bitterman, and Frances Tsukano (Showdown); plus Rachael Westgate who won the Freshman of the Year in the Central. This is all without Eyleen Chou who captains Atropa and Amber Sinicrope, who punches faces with Brute Squad.

Now comes the real challenge; how to overcome the lip service and make measurable impacts on game. What am I bringing to the table? Obviously, Muffin will need to gain the trust of the players before they can take serious critique and input about strategy. Women tend to take things more personally and will want more of an investment of a whole person. This will involve a better/nicer communication style and a different method to the madness. What's the best way to deal with an intense dictator? Hopefully co-coach Courtney can mediate the differences in opinion.

And then we have the hard questions like: Who will get the best nicknames? Who will be made fun of the most? How often will the disc be spiked? How many times will I have to deal with Hodag/Bella drama? I expect this season to be very fun as well as a learning experience as it will be crazy jumping straight into a girl's team dynamic. Besides, if Ben Wiggins can coach, then it must be easy ;p
So Is Belladonna Taking Home the Title in 2010?
That's my bet.

Coach

2009-08-24T11:18:00.000-06:00

My freshman college season was in 1999. The prior off-season the Hodags had decided to undergo some giant changes. For the first time ever, there would be tryouts to make the team in the fall. The now-classic logo made its debut on the front of our three all-cotton jerseys, colored baby blue, white, and black.

The captains elected to implement this new paradigm were Opie and Simon McNair, a mathematics grad student from Canada far older than anyone else on the team. He was set to play his fifth year of college disc that season until, shortly after the fall began, he learned that a change in the UPA's eligibility guidelines rendered him, sadly, ineligible. The rules before had established eligibility starting the moment you became a UPA member and for five years afterwards. The subtle change that year was that your clock started ticking when you joined the UPA or any other worldwide governing body of Ultimate. As a Canadian, he'd been a part of CUPA before joining the UPA, and that got 'im.

After a short bit of soul-searching he decided to stay on board with the team and act as our coach through the season. Being the most experienced and oldest, he guided that young team through the transitional phase from ragtag runners throwing the fris', to the disciplined national power the Hodags are today. He stuck around the following year as well, and he and Opie put the pieces in place one practice at a time.

It has come full circle for me now. Last week I spoke to the captains of this year's Hodags and they extended the offer to have me coach the team this year, in a role far more involved and critical than the advisory roles Muffin and I shared last year. I, of course, accepted.

My main duties will be planning and running practices and implementing team-wide concepts and strategies as directed by the team leadership. I expect that as the season progresses we will delineate our roles on the team more specifically, but I am mindful of their leadership and plan on limiting my role where I feel the captains and officers need to take charge. To put it another way, I think my main contributions will be in getting the team ready to play at a tournament, and then providing strategic adjustments in games, and their job will be to make sure the team is actually performing when it's go time. I am the study guide, they are the test-takers.

I'm incredibly excited at the opportunity. The styles of practice and leadership that I've been providing as captain of Madison Club have been well-received, and I feel like we're on track to do great things. I'm anxious to throw lumps of freshmen on my potter's wheel and build them up into a new generation of KM dominators, as mindful of sportsmanship as they are of fundamentals and hard work.

Hodag Love!

UFSE: Ultimate Frisbee Stock Exchange (IV)

2009-08-21T10:07:00.002-06:00

The Dow tanked. UFSE continues strong!

Buy:

Streetgang - Recent merger between competitors should mean a stronger product for consumers in '09.
Chase Sparling-Beckley - Best mixed division player. Ever.
Next Level HS Ultimate camp - Inaugural year goes off without a hitch. Team synergy in service-based market was strong and immediate. A bargain right now.
Alex Simmons - Virtual unknown about to be known. Buy now, but don't tell who gave you the insider info.
Carleton College - With coming influx of young national talent, should continue to hold its top spot for the foreseeable future.
Madison Club - Head-hunters hire away regional rivals' studs and grow in the process.
Doublewide - Current portfolio has them positioned to make big moves upward.
Russell Wynne - Currently trading for pennies, but developing innovative technology that will blow away the competition.
UPA Communications Director - New executive director signals possibility that next CD may actually stick around a bit.
Old People - Maiden GrandMasters championship buys this company a little more shelf-life and relevancy before being being sent to the knackers.
Riot - Despite an epic meltdown of their Finals Nuclear Reactor, they seemed to have cleared out the radiation nicely. Acquisition of Gwen Ambler steadies the ship.

Hold:

Revolver - speculators have driven up price enough to keep profit margins small, but should meet expectations.
Ironside - strong 2nd quarter puts them in line to grab more market share, but showdown with Revolver looms over patenting of moniker "Club Champions"
Machine - purchased assets from truck company pennies on the dollar, but mismanagement continues to keep them hovering in place.
Furious George - This stock's up-and-down performance makes it a shaky investment in their crowded market, but the payoff for current stockholders could be large.
Fury - Latest tournament loss should not inspire a selling panic. Still one of the most solidly performing stocks.
Gabe Saunkeah - current inactivity is no sign that this company won't continue to impress when its machines start humming again.
Mixed Division - like MySpace or PerezHilton, it's not going anywhere.

Sell:

Jam - Much of the upper brass retired with golden parachutes. Stock will rebound eventually, but still trading high enough that a sell at this time can allow a larger buy-in later.
Sub Zero - Employee diaspora leaves gaping holes in assembly line.
RSD - Old media is dead. New informational feeds and spam clog are rendering it irrelevant.
Unempowered Observers - All indications signal that their product will be useless in the future.
Plain Jerseys - Sublimation is quietly inching away market share, and consumers are liking what they see.
Sectionals Nudity - Product Recall forces company into bankruptcy.

Colorado Cup 2009, Bill Locker

2009-07-30T18:16:00.013-06:00

I find it no coincidence that Madison plays Sub Zero first and Machine last.

At this moment various members of Madison Club, Sub Zero, Machine, Johnny Bravo, Showdown, and Nemesis are all remembering the tall tale of Schloski Carrillo - and thus we have the reminiscence of Bill Locker:

He's grown up now, but on a March evening as a sophomore Bill Locker tempted fate and logic, and lost.

The typical shenanigans that seem to follow college spring breaks were blossoming about the evening's stem. PoNY captain Tom Burkly was engaged in a strategy meeting that lasted longer than anyone intended. With each new strategic point, beers were cracked and Bill found himself owing liver debt early in the festivities.

The corpses of the cases killed during Burkly's soliloquy littered the common area, and Bill played Ramses II and commissioned the construction of the largest beer-amid the young team had ever seen. Thirsty from backbreaking work, they quaffed the rest of the beers and began a series of endless arguments about pecking order, shitting on each other in the sorts of brotherly spats that bring a team together when that energy is focused outward (and frequency of which made this crew of players such dominant studs when they took over the team's reins).

Demostrating his resourcefulness, Bill spotted a bottle of Fleischmann's Vodka on top of the fridge and offered the rest of the soldiers still raging kill it by waterfall. It goes around the bullring once before Bill, sense of time and danger probably distorted by the same beers he'd earlier imbibed, took the initiative to coup de gras what was left, an amount enough to give even Judy Garland a buzz.

Everyone looked at him with an equal mix of awe and concern. He took the plastic from his lips and slowly lowered the empty to the table. As he let go of it, the slightest of a body tremble was the first subtle foreshadow that trouble lied ahead. He gripped the bottle hard and leaned through it against the table below. His eyes went empty, the curtains closed though he remained standing.

In the next waning moments of consciousness, something goes terribly wrong. Billiam attempts to open the window as a door handle, spilling syrup serendipiously, and dancing pop-locker-and-drop it. As Mr. Locker was pushed into the stairway bathroom, his muscular physique saved him from certain trigger-pulling. With a great feat of strength, Schlockster breaks through the crowd and storms the hallway, demolishing his once perfectly perfected pyramid of beers. In two giant leaps, Sausage Links is down the street and disappearing. "Where are you going big guy?" Locker's face fills with glee as he slowly turns, steadying himself on a car hood, just moments before slipping and curbing his face.

Within seconds, Bill Locker is carried back into the fray and forced to sleep it off. However, as the sun rises, Bill is nowhere to be found. His suit coat, shoes, socks, and shirt are all left strewn about the landscape and the legend of Locker can be construed through the images of Lou Ferrigno skipping though the streets of Madison.

Today was a brutally long day of ultimate. Madison Murder Club jumped all over Sub Zero for a 5-1 lead and 7-4 half. Sub Zero pulled the game to 10-9 before Madison finished strong 13-11.

Madison traded with Doublewide to a 3-3 score before Texas broke twice to lead 3-6 and half 5-7. Club could not make up the deficit, losing 9-13.

Johnny Bravo was playing fast, taking the early lead 3-5 and half 5-7. Madison Went on a 5-1 run to make it 10-8 before stealing the game down the stretch 13-11.

Last up was Truck Stop, who broke quickly to a 1-5 lead. Madison cut it to 4-5 before losing half 4-7. Madison made a late push, closing the score to 10-11 before Truck Stop gritted out the win 11-13.

Madison is 2-2 with JAM first thing in the morning.

Now for the overall scouting report.
CUT still fouls intentionally.
Kurt still wears gloves.
Stout still takes off shirt in between each point.
Muffin still screams Boom Headshot after boom headshots.
Johnny Bravo still isn't laughing.
Prairie Fire is still looking longingly from the open bracket.
Georgia Bosscher is still SAF as funk.
Doublewide isn't quite sure what "swagger" is.
And Damien is on crutches.
Fury won 13-2 in the showcase game...
10 degrees hotter tomorrow

Potlatch 2009: Arrival

2009-07-09T07:00:00.000-06:00

As I arrived into Seattle-Tacoma Airport, my stomach and mind were famished; one for food and the other for answers to questions that had gnawed me hollow.

Among them:
How ready were my legs and throws to play quality competitive Ultimate for three straight days?
How would Downtown Brown connect as a team throughout the weekend?
What kind of response would we receive when the circle is opened to any comers? Would there be a response at all? (toward this question I felt as I had when filling out invitations to my grade-school birthday parties - what if no one comes?)
How would I react at a tournament that has such strong emotional memories attached to it?
At weekend's end, would I leave the Redmond fields with a sense of connection, family, and hope for my future, or would i leave feeling alone, rejected, and cut adrift?

This being my third trip to Potlatch, my prior two visits had answered most of my inward questions across the spectrum of the positive and negative. Aside from playing well, what I wanted most was to leave Potlatch confident, accepted, and whole.

These might seem to you as needlessly heavy concerns, considering that I was heading to a tournament many place atop the list of capital-F Fun tournaments. I acknowledge that. Thing is, this would not only be my first tournament since the end of last season's Club Championships, but in the interim I also fell into a dense fog of anxiety and depression that had made it difficult to accomplish much of anything without a Herculean effort, and it had only been a few months since I'd come out of it. The clarity I now had, and the difference from where I had been at year's end, were like cleaning a hundred-year old window in your room for the first time, and looking out of it. I feel good, and worry wort that I am, I wanted to continue on the up and up.

So that's the backstory to what was in my head as I touched down. I had reason to believe the weekend would be a positive one; my ticket there had been free after a fortuitous bump in a layover Denver-to-Madison, which not only got me the voucher, but also allowed me a week in Boulder with my brother and a trip to Breckenridge for my boy Whit's wedding to all-around hottie Jen. So good karma abounded.

Shortly after landing my boy Feldspar scored me a Double Whopper meal, so with one of my hungers satiated I waited until two DTB teammates showed up to carpool. We relaxed and ate, framed by a fashionably late sunset, and returned to the airport to pick up a Team Canada player before quitting the night. Never far from me, settling into a place alongside my travel pillow, was that nagging voice of doubt. "Dude, this might get fucked up." I was thankful to be too tired to pay it much heed.

2009 Hoosier Hoedown (Before)

2009-07-08T14:25:00.005-06:00

I'm incredibly glad that Degs wrote that throwback article harking back to the days when things as pedestrian as loose tournament organization were a treat, rather than an expectation. I distinctly remember going to Easterns back when Mike Gerics was at the helm, and wondering who this dude was patrolling all the fields in the morning yelling and threatening to start assessing points if the game didn't start that instant.

"Dude's got a stick up his ass" might have been along the lines of what I was thinking as I saw him get red-faced, but by tourney's end there was no doubt that he held everything down and that, compared to other tournaments being run at the time, he was worlds above the rest in organization and professionalism. By way of example as to what was happening elsewhere, nine Madison dudes once showed up to a Easy Coast tourney on our way back home from spring break and picked up, as a team, at the tourney, half an hour before it began. Those were the days, for better or worse.

Since then we as a group have gotten our shit together a bit better (with still room for improvement) and tournament games start on time and expectations are clearly stated.

So why the hell is it that, three days before Hoosier Hodown, there is zero information up on their website, or on the UPA's tourney page, about what teams are going and what the format is? It's Wednesday. They already have a skeletal page constructed for the tournament. It would literally take 5 minutes for someone to go and type in, at minimum, the names of the attending teams. Or 20 minutes to go to the UPA's tourney page and plug in the format without team names.

But, c'mon. It's 2009. We as a group should be beyond this. I know that organizing a tournament is hard work, and delegation, and many small details aside, but at minimum post online for the few who care what teams will be playing. It's similar to the tree falling in the woods; if there's nothing online to begin planning, hype, and talking points, why would anyone care what the hell happened?

I don't think that is too much to ask.

Intercepted Discourse

2009-07-07T15:52:00.008-06:00

Dear Grand Masters and Masters Women's division players,

We're all set for this weekend! Following the bi-annual East Coast captains meeting in April I rounded up everyone's addresses and phone numbers. (A few of you are now using something called CompuServe but I can't figure it out! We only got a facsimile machine this year.) After trying to get a hold of everyone for weeks and weeks, I finally did. Had to leave a bunch of messages but got called back by enough teams finally man. Enough commitments in the end. For the first time you can't just roll up to the tournament and expect a bid -- we're getting serious or something.

Speaking of, can you believe the UPA is making us wear numbers on our jerseys?? And no more tie-dye, sorry everyone! I was shocked when I received the uniform requirements (by mail of course).

The fields are supposed to be super-kind. I can't believe a pro soccer team has its own stadium, but apparently the fields that surround it are nice. My team is looking at a nice long drive -- 20 hours!! We should roll up in time to play the first round (+40 minutes -- Ultimate time!).

OK, couple of other crucial bits of information... we are not using the Wham-O 80 Mold! Some upstart named Discraft is providing something called an Ultra-Star. Eric Simon said it's legit, so that's fine by me. Also, go over the rules, dudes! Word on the street is we will not be playing by the 7th Edition, but instead the 11th Edition. I hope we get lined fields ... I know, I know, I've never played on lined fields in my entire life, but hoping might just make it happen.

I heard a couple volunteers are also coming down to write up articles for the newsletter, so tourney results will be freshly delivered sometime in September.

All right friends, see ya in Denver! Drive safe -- and definitely go the speed limit!

p.s. No camping at the fields! Sucks, I know.

Clublatch

2009-06-30T07:04:00.001-06:00

They say deaths of famous people come in threes, so I've dodged another bullet. Farrah, Michael, and then, tragically, Billy Mays.

It's an ironic shame that after having endured anal cancer, then the breech of her trust and confidentiality at the hands of her medical team, Farrah's light was eclipsed totally by the passing of MJ. With one improperly-administered painkiller to the King of Pop, her thunder was silenced. She was on the front page of CNN for less than 4 hours.

Then, naturally, MJ's death blew up the news and threatened to "take the internet with [it]". Our long infatuation with stardom is such a well-worn groove these days I won't do much here but note the passion with which we responded to it. One of my good friends in Denver was incredibly upset, and told me later her father had been similarly distraught, near tears even. Fair enough.

But my surprise at the wellspring of condolances following Billy Mays' death threatened to sand away at my well-seasoned, ironic view of the world. Given a news-cycle's reprieve from the MJ death, he was on CNN's front page for almost the entire day after he was found dead. Here we are, after all, mourning a man who made himself famous because he was good at getting so excited about products that we wanted to spend our money to have them. I've used OxiClean before. Meh. Perhaps my letdown was in the fact that somewhere, deep down, I had hoped using it would make me experience life and consumerism with the same euphoric passion Mr. Mays displayed. I submit that it did a slightly better-than-average job at getting the stains out, nothing more. And although I am genuinely remorseful that he had to die so young, with so many cleaning supplies yet unsold, I'm still pretty deep in the anti-infomercial camp. I am already bracing myself for Ron Popeil's obituary.

None of this has anything to do with Ultimate, of course, but if you made it this far, it's fair to tell you that I am the captain of Madison Club, along with Carleton GOP alum Seth Meyer, and that after only two practices I can safely say it's going to be a very work-intensive and rewarding season. Kansas Prarie Fire's victory over a much-depleted Johnny Bravo tryout squad at Live Logic can't be dismissed, and with Sub Zero filling its own voids (CUT standouts Lindsley and Kanner are MIA this season, along with the Madison contingent that's staying home, and the departure of Kevin Riley, CallaHeijmen, and the unsinkable Andrew Brown to various parts of the globe), Chicago Machine is looking to be, at the beginning of the season, off to the best start. But that still leaves 4 front-runners angling for 3 bids. Here come the musical chairs.

Two thing about Machine (ok, three). First, word is they cut many (all?) of the BAT guys who tried out for them. That says to me that either they're already very deep and didn't want any out-of-towners, or they made a few poor managerial decisions. Second, while planning our tourney schedule, the Midwest teams had discussed all going to the same area tourneys so as to get the most competitive games in before the series. To that end we were contacted by Chicago, who requested we all agree to go to Hoosier Hodown in Indiana, and since we were debating between HH and Motown Throwdown anyway, we decided it wasn't a bad idea. A week after we'd contacted the TDs of the tourney confirming we'd go, Chicago contacts us again. That sorry, but there were actually a few weddings unaccounted for, and an ingrown toenail, and sandy vagges had gone unmentioned, and could we please instead go to another tourney, one that better suits their schedule. We responded with the most polite "fuck yourselves" possible. We want to play the best competition, but we're not chasing after anyone on their scheduling whim. Sub Zero is attending MUDI, so we all went our separate ways. We have till Colorado Cup to mingle amongst ourselves.

(last thing I wanted to say is about Tyson Park, who is back and "playing" for Machine this year: I want you there buddy, badly, because it means I might actually get to see you this year, but I'll believe it when you're cleated up at regionals.)

Former Hottest Man in Ultimate Valley Renshaw is back to form, it's being said. My only comment to that is that Nick Nolte was once People's Sexiest Man Alive (no joke, 1992!). Times change, hair buns get cut. I suspect he and Jerrod are still going to be formidable, and I hope they don't think for a moment the other teams are sleeping on them. I did find funny they complained to Colorado Cup that they wouldn't attend unless they were guaranteed a spot in the elite division. Can you believe it! I actually LOL'd. They lost in semis of the open divison last year and they're complaining about the competition being too easy. Rein in those horses, buddies. You've got this whole season to prove yourselves.

But, for a moment, let's step away from club Ultimate and focus on the immediate task at hand: Potlatch. After a fortuitously overbooked flight back to Madison from a trip in the Grand Canyon, I scored a free ticket that I used to book my trip. Considering that I was recently let go from my job for the summer (bummer), I plan on subsisting on tuna and mustard/mayo packets I plan on stealing from some area deli (but am certainly not above receiving charity in the form of food, etc). I've got a tent lined up, a ride to the fields and back (I think), and I'm fired up about playing.

It's my third time back. The first was made memorable by events that have already been written about here, the second by my fun participation in the MLU experiment (2nd in fantasy behind Nord, bitches!), and this one has yet to lift its skirt and reveal its secrets and treasures to me. Still, there are a few things on my mind as I head there; some unrelated to Ultimate and thus for now omitted here, and some very much about my team and my role as a player.

Downtown Brown, bless its soul (pun intended), has outgrown its ability to be a single team and maintain any sense of playing rhythm and thus competitiveness, especially in light of this year's national teams, and so for Potlatch it was decided by special junta that in the spirit of Champ-bracket representation we'd bring a parsed team with the hopes of knocking down a giant or two on our way through the tourney. There was debate about this, and it will continue in our circle once there:

By what criteria should one get to play on Downtown Brown? Should the only burden of proof be that you not be white (although it has had a whitey or two in its history)? If so, does that only serve to strengthen the us-vs-them mentality that we (or at least I) purport to be fighting? In light of Obama's campaign speech on race and identity, how is it that we're defining ourselves as a team? I am all Mexican pride, and if you know me or have seen me I literally wear it on my sleeve (and skin). Yet playing division along racial and ethnic boundaries has never sat well with me, and because I've spent so much of my life growing up vastly outnumbered by whites, it would have been incredibly self-destructive for me to have drawn a line between myself and Them.

So the question remains then, who "owns" Downtown Brown? Who should get to play on the team? It's great that players of color have reached a critical mass that now forces us to ask these questions. Certainly when I started, we were the exception to the rule, and the opportunity to play with other brownie ballers made me salivate. But should that be enough? This is, after all, an Ultimate team, not a national multicultural PIRG, and when we meet we're going to play Ultimate. As much as I love playing, I am also a fierce competitor who loves winning, and while I identify myself certainly as a brownie and more specifically as Hispanic (and even more specifically as Mexican), when I'm at a tourney I see myself primarily not as any of these things, but as a player. The ultimate community is my community, and on what promises to be one of the most competitive coed tourneys I've ever played in, I want to be on a team that is as good as it can be, and that requires that choices, hard choices, be made.

Rest assured the debate is only just beginning. Feel free to give me your two cents either in the comments here, or along the expansive Burlington fields this weekend. Peace.

The discussion continues here at the Huddle. I extend Mike's invitation to join DTB for a discussion on these issues and more on - what an apt date - the 4th of July. -ed.

On our way

2009-05-20T10:49:00.002-06:00

The time is nigh. With half the team already en route, we depart from downtown Madison feeling good about everything. I'll write more tomorrow after we've arrived if I can find an internet connection somewhere.

In the meantime, come along on the trip with me here. My musings will be reactionary and reflective, and I'll keep all the alumni abreast of the events going on between the lines, the things you won't be reading about on the Score Reporter.

Safe travels and good luck to everyone. Walk hard.

Are you freaking out yet?

2009-05-19T17:39:00.007-06:00

You. 5th year player. Nationals begins in 3 days; Your college career ends in 7. Has that reality sunk in yet? Of course it has. I doubt anything other than that reality has been on your mind lately. So, how long have you been freaking out then? A couple of days, a couple of weeks, or have the last several months come crashing down upon you? For most of you, the school year has indeed ended – graduations and commencements come and gone – and the only thing left is to figure out summer employment plans… and win a championship. Yet, in the rush of college life – sometimes the reality that this segment of your life is finishing goes unnoticed. Do these 5th year seniors realize that their college experience has ended? Nope.

This is the first time in the 6 years that I have been a part of the Hodags, in which I have not seen a 5th year player break down to tears during a team huddle when realizing that it was their last College Regionals or Nationals. Usually it's a captain or officer, who is overcome with emotion upon realizing just how much the team means to him. I vividly recall Dan Miller and Jimmy McMurray choking back tears when they tried to articulate what the team actually meant to them. I remember Dan Heijmen’s teary long-winded speeches, Rebholz’s moment to collect himself, and Rodrigo breaking down when the moment of realization came – all of these reflected in their dedication to the program.

And that is what Wisconsin does to its ultimate players. It makes them care. It goes so far as a sense of identity. Ultimate is not something I play – Ultimate is who I am. No wonder Wisconsin consistently turns out dominant programs – the players just care more. However, so far this season, no graduating senior has addressed the team in such a manner. Either the 5th years are especially good at controlling their emotions or it hasn’t quite hit them yet. As hard as it was for me, as impossible as it was, I hope this year's crop can push those thoughts out of their minds for at least one more week. It will be over before they know it. I have seen the 5 super seniors of the Hodags grow, develop and mature into stud players – and now I will have to watch them – like the many before them – learn to deal with life without college ultimate. Departing from a college team of your best friends is no easy feat. It's a death in your life. Your teammates will move away, your camaraderie and everyday interactions will fade to memory, and you will eventually need to cope that fantasy land is over and real life begins. But one more summer of fun can’t hurt anything…

The Struggles/Joys of the Player/Coach

2009-05-19T10:17:00.001-06:00

Musings by 2007 Callahan Winner Dan Heijmen

One aspect of the Callahan discussion that I don’t think has been given enough attention is the fact that Jim Foster, while being the Hodags go-to player, is also their coach. This write-up isn’t meant in any way to diminish the accomplishments or talents of any of the other front-runners for Callahan (Mac, Stevie, Will) but to say that these players have all benefitted heavily from having a coach. I know from playing against the three guys I mentioned above that they are studs on the field and command the respect of their teammates and opponents. I have seen Mac, Stevie and Will do amazing things on the field and know that they are leaders in the huddles and most likely have a strong influence on their team’s strategy/personnel/ line calling etc.

What I do want to talk about what its like to be a player/coach on a top-level ultimate team. Let me just say from the start that it’s really f-ing hard. Even with the support of your teammates having a responsibility to your team in two different facets takes a high level of patience, focus and dedication, especially if you are able to continue to play at a high level. On the Hodags we know that the player who takes the role as the “senior captain” is sacrificing quite a bit. Having been in that position myself I was almost crushed under the pressure of having to be a playmaker on the field while retaining my responsibility to coach and run the team. The transition b/w being the junior captain (i.e. first year captain) to senior captain (second year) was a jump I wasn’t fully prepared for during my last year of college ultimate. Knowing that Tom Burkly, my senior captain in 2006, was gone scared the shit out of me. I was entrusted with a team that had just come off an incredible season that came up just short of a national title. The pressure was on us to deliver a championship. Due to this weight, my play suffered severely the first half of the 2007 season. I played (what I consider) the worst game of my ultimate career in the finals of Vegas (a universe point loss to Florida,) as a direct result of feeling like I had to “be the guy” while trying to coach, call subs, change strategy etc. I was lucky enough to have guys around me during that game who picked up my slack (Jim Foster for one, had an incredible game, highlighted by a ridiculous sky of Kurt Gibson off some trash I threw into the end zone), but in the end the loss was on me and my inability to successful function as both a player and a coach.

Throughout the season I knew that I wasn’t playing at the best of my ability b/c I was so focused on the rest of the team. Sure I could lock in while a point was being played, but being in that mindset throughout the game is not a luxury you have when you’re responsible for gauging all the different factors of a particular point/game/day/tournament or season. Having this sort of responsibility on a college team, whose goals are so high, is incredibly challenging. Its not like in Club where you can count on the majority of your teammates knowing where they should be and what they should be doing. And with the premium the Hodags have always placed on developing younger players, the distraction to a captain’s individual game can be huge. I don’t mean to imply at all that Jim is doing it all on his own, or that the other Hodags aren’t doing enough. In my time as a captain with the Hodags I had an amazing support system during my last year which included Matt Rebholz, Dan Miller, Muffin, Matt Scallet, Jack Marsh and yes, Jim Foster. I know Jim has the same. These players made up the leadership core of the team and we got together often to discuss strategy, personnel, schedules etc.

But come tournament time, a lot falls on the shoulders of the senior captain, in this case Jim Foster. He has been entrusted with a team that has won back-to-back national championships, but that has lost many of the familiar faces that made them up. As was mentioned in Jon Gaynor’s recent post: gone from last year are 5th year players like Shane Hohenstein, Drew Mahowald, Matt Rebholz, Will Lokke, Muffin, Kevin Riley, Chris Doede and Seth Meyer. Each of these players was invaluable over the past two seasons. The strong, vocal, experienced 5th year presence is perhaps not as evident this season compared to seasons past. Yet look at what Wisconsin has accomplished so far this season. Perhaps not the dominant regular season from the past 3 seasons, but a guaranteed top 4 seed in what has been the craziest college ultimate season we’ve seen for the last 6 or 7 years. He has molded a team comprised of the most inexperienced players the Hodags have had since the turn of the century into one of the few teams with a shot to win nationals.

And despite what you might think about the top programs in the country, it is not easy to stay this good from season to season. Especially when the knowledge and responsibility is not embodied in a coach who has been there year after year, but actually passed down from player to player, each season interpreted and implemented slightly differently. That Jim has been able to individually have the season he’s had is nothing short of remarkable. It is a testament to his focus, his determination and his love for his Hodags. I get razzed quite a bit from former teammates for throwing around love like this, but it is true for us. That’s why we scream Hodag Love before games/after games/after practice/and whenever we get together. That’s why Hodags play like they do and that’s why Jim can scream, “We’re the fucking Hodags” in a huddle and it has an immediate response. It is an amazing thing to be a Hodag: To be part of something each season that is incredibly unique yet so clearly connected to the teams of the past, and I know that captaining them has so far been the privilege and honor of Jim’s life. We take it pretty seriously in Madison.

And despite the frustration that I’m sure sets in for Jim from time to time, wishing that maybe for a game or a practice he could forget being a captain and just play, he knows its worth it. Sure it makes the losses harder to stomach, but the wins are that much sweeter. And if you’re lucky enough to make it to Columbus, and to watch the Hodags the play, you’ll see them play with an intensity that is unmatched, spurred forward by their leader. The best and most valuable player in the country: Jim Foster.

What's next after Foul/Contest?

2009-04-27T12:29:00.006-06:00

This shit has been bothering me since the last club season, but it seems like people have either forgotten how to resolve a contested foul, or for the newer players, they were never taught how. It's unconscionable that with games observed this weekend at Central Regionals, there were still contested calls that seemed to have opening and closing arguments, with ample witnesses called to testify on both sides and cross examination before finally resolving it. Fucking brutal, whether the Hodags were doing it or any other team. Let's go over the quick, fair, efficient way of dealing with a contested call so that in the future we can spend less time with lip service and more time playing.

Step 1: A call has been made. Foul. Travel. Whatever. Dude yells out the infraction, and play stops (eventually). Elapsed time: 1s

Step 2: "Contest!" (or in the case of a dude on Luther, "FUCKING CONTEST!" It's ok to show initial disagreement, but you might only be hurting your chances). Elapsed time: 5-10s

Stp 3: Now, in all the calls I've ever witnessed (not all, but the exceptions are statistically insignificant) both parties will know within the first 30 seconds if the other is even thinking of taking their call back. You know this within thirty seconds, and even that is a generous amount of time. So, pause to assess. Take your time, as much as 20 seconds even, if you think they're unsure of their call. For those of you who, in Step 2, bitched at all, skip this step. You've already blown your chances to get the call taken back. In these 20 seconds state your case for why you called the foul, or why you're contesting. State your case clearly, and state it only once. Elapsed time: 30-45s

During this time the observers will be approaching you either knowing how they'd rule, knowing they can't rule, or making sure their ruling agrees with the each other's. They either saw what happened, and have an opinion about it, or they didn't see what happened. If it's the latter, the rules are clear: send it back and do it over. No amount of showmanship, acting, yelling, or legal proceedings here will create a different outcome: we just get to watch you make a fool of yourself bending over backwards to hear yourself talk. You're not interested in actually changing the play because you assessed, correctly so, at the beginning of Step 3, that neither party was backing down.

Step 4a: You both agree to disagree, and leave it at that. Foul: contest. Send it back, do it over, and tap the disc in.

Step 4b: This is where the observing this weekend was, excuse the pun JThib, sub-par. Once two players have gone to the observers, the observers should, if necessary, ask to clarify what infraction is being called. Not how it happened, not a request to recreate it, just make sure you're about to rule on the correct call. It should go something like this:

"Are you coming to me?"
"Yes."
"What call are you making?" (note: only if unclear. This is clear ~90% of the time)
"He fouled me as I tried to catch it."
"No foul, play on." Boom. Elapsed time: <99s

See how easy that is? See how two people disagreed, and the observers did what they're supposed to do, which is to cut down the arguing time and either rule or send it back?

They're not supposed to sit there and spectate thespian theatrics. They're not supposed to ask leading questions that might sqeeze another two minutes out of the argument. They're supposed to go in there, have the players defer to them, and judge instantly. Boom, game on again.

If the players are taking more than 60-90s in Step 3, the observer steps in and asks them to either agree right then, ask for his ruling, or send it back. After the observer has done this, the game should be back on within 15s. It's not too much to ask, is it?

Play on.

p.s. Regarding the two disagreed calls this weekend that I felt Thib blew: I don't think he made those calls to either punish Wisco or to help Luther and CUT. I feel he made both calls as he thought they should go. He just made two mistakes. The call in the Luther game was one where his angle on the play made him see something that, when viewed from the front, wasn't actually happening. He choose to rule anyway, and i disagreed with his perspective on it. The second was a case of whether the disc was catchable based on all the player movements, and whether Kanner was going to be anywhere near the disc. Again, I thought he blew the call, but based on how utterly stupid and n00b-like Drews approached that whole scenario, I can't blame him for allowing that amateur case influence his decision to rule in CUT's favor. I was on the sidelines wishing I could gag Drews instantly.

Hh & Muffin Embedded at Central Regionals 4

2009-04-26T23:18:00.005-06:00

Final thoughts:

H- Carleton is very good. And by that I mean that Grant and Kanner are very good. Their supporting cast is stronger than all Luther or Minnesota but the presence of those two studs makes CUT the #1 seed at Natties in my opinion. The weather was nasty before the game, but it improved at about half the rate of the field's deterioration. It eventually became a soupy mud half an inch deep, covering a hard layer yet to thaw from a Minnesota winter. Hard to cut on and caking everything.

The whole game carried intensity, but credit the giant crowd of Carleton geeks that came in the driving rain to cheer on their most popular varsity team. Their energy late in the game seemed to give CUT that extra little bit that allowed them to put away the long points, while Wisconsin struggled to convert their defensive opportnities into breaks. I would also be ok with JThib never observing a Hodag game again, and after several people voiced long-held concerns about a possible bias against our team, I couldn't argue with them after another endzone call he ruled on. Brutal call. JFo and Bergen played incredibly well the whole game, but we couldn't finish on D. Things to work on this month.

Game against Luther was that ugly, flat, lifeless game that comes from a team coming down a high-intensity loss playing one already happy it got this far. The weather was better, but still cold, and points dragged on as it got sloppy, but never close, 13-8. Around this time all the other chatter from regionals across the country started condensing. It will be interesting to see how the seeding is approached this year.

Also Team USA lost in a scrimmage to Bay area players 12-10!

M- Regional Final

Holy Shit, Carleton snobs are soo stuck up. Wisconsin went through the game plan for Sunday thoroughly at the team meeting. Nobody was scared and all the pressure was on CUT. Sunday morning the games were pushed back half an hour and the rain canceled use of the stadium. It is miserably rainy, cold, and windy at 12:15pm. It should be a rager to remember. One hour to game time and the anxiety rises. 5th year Captain Jimmy Foster and Officer Tom Annen were the only Hodags to have played a Regional Finals in Northfield. Their horror stories of the affair were enough to make Jerry faint and Armstrong puke. It was an appauling scene. A medium drizzle, soaked fields, moderate winds, and 50 degrees maybe. The big match-ups will be Klane vs. CK, Kanner vs. Manny, and Feldman vs. Lindsley. Murderballs Murderballs Stab Stab Kill! can be heard in the distance. The Hodags drilled hard in the now pouring rain, getting jacked, and making plays. Carleton meanwhile had been nowhere to be seen, stealthily warming up on a concealed field. When the Knights arrived to the field, the rain intensified and lightning thundered across the sky. Foster lost the flip and it was Offense to start, as the observers explained the last minute details. The pouring rain was ridiculous and the rowdy Carleton fans were screaming non-sense. Neither team looked particularly prepared to seize the opportunity, as turns came frequently. Darth Klane was lazer slicing in every direction while Drews was toasting in the mud. And it was muddy and every jersey showed it! Players hit the ground constantly - bidding, falling, slipping, or just getting muscled over. Adam Drews finally takes control and hits Mannywood O2 for the 1-0 lead. CUT looked shocked and the rain ceased. 5th year stud Tom Annen ripped an under layout D, wiping the mud across his cheeks for eye black. Carleton manages a score with quick transition throws 1-1. Both points were marathonesque with countless ridiculous turns! Still neither team was exerting its full will and every point was up for grabs, deep shots firing left and right. John Bergen burns O2 and finds Gaynor for the score 2-1. Grant Lindsley becomes the centerpiece of Carleton's attack and Matt Crumb tightens up, bidding twice on under cuts, definitely in Grant's shorts but it ties 2-2. Evan Klane rips a nasty 50 yard break side huck to a skying Jimmy Foster 3-2. Wisco shows zone, but Kanner rips a backhand over the entire field to CK 3-3. The rain begins again and the conditions worsen, the field is messed. Jimmy Foster is forced to get a huge layout D, scoring the bookends from Klane 4-3. The multiple turnover points continue and to marathon length as the game as obviously going to be capped. Kanner refused to listen, calling relentless fouls, flopping a bit, and being the biggest baby - and insisting that Animal was cheating by calling fast count. CUT begins to adjust, working the disc under and converting their O and break to lead 4-5. Wisconsin was getting ample opportunities each point, but were making bone-headed decisions and jacking stupid looks. Madison called a timeout and reminded themselves that CUT without Kanner and Grant is really just Minnesota. Mannywood ripped a shot to Jimmy Foster as Madison scored 5-5. Carleton holds on O to make it 5-6 and Wisconsin begins taking bad looks. After the 4th Wisco turnover in the red zone, CUT fast breaks deep as Chunky Christian Foster rips a flick to Fat Kanner waddling past Animal and finishing 5-7. Half traded to 6-8 Carleton, as Lindley gets loose deep for the first easy goal allowed. Manny took the huddle by storm, screaming about desire and making plays. "These guys are scared of us - every single guy is backing us and we continue to jack it! Chill the fuck out!" Wisconsin starts the second half on Defense, totally stacked, and immediately break as Cullen hits Jimmy for the brutal sky 7-8. The Hodags rush the field and Carleton waivers for a moment as Madison has the disc in the red zone twice, but cannot convert. Carleton fast breaks for the goal 7-9 and time is running out. The rain is coming in hard waves and moving the disc is no luxury. Wisconsin takes the pull and centers who Lazer, who fires the around break for the first time all day, but is tragically footblocked! Carleton is on the doorstep but is forced into a stall 9 cross field floater. Kanner is running to the space, battling with Drews every step. They bump shoulders and Fat Kanner falls, to the feet of a full extension flying Foster, sky catching the disc at 10'3 with his landing almost on Kanner's face! Kanner screams bloody murder and it goes to the observer. JThib unfuckinbelievably calls it a foul and it goes back and CUT breaks to lead 7-10. The wheels come off at 7-11 and soft cap blows. It is 8-12 and then 8-13 with a looming hard cap and a desperate Wisco. The Hodags were crestfallen for only moments before hearing that Florida is not going to Nationals. Boner Check. Luther was ecstatic to beat Minnesota, scoring and breaking on universe, in Tim Pearce's eyeball O2 as Greg Sherbet celebrated a Nationals birth. The 2-3 game was uneventful as Wisconsin won 13-8 in a half-hearted effort. Minnesota took care of Iowa on the cap to round out the 4 bids. Too bad the NW only gets 2 bids.

Hh & Muffin Embedded at Central Regionals 3

2009-04-25T19:04:00.007-06:00

M- Lufda Alumni Beek's, Guam and Dill all claim it will be a thrilling deathmatch. Wisconsin starts slow as Luther hucks deep 1-0 with a raucus home crowd. Wisconsin fights off a break chance and scores 1-1. Game play escalates and the Hodags steal the lead 3-1. Luther barely makes it 3-2 but the game is competitive. Just trying to keep it close it trades to 5-3. It goes to 6-4 and then Masler rips a break 7-4. Animal punches Lil' Shirby in the head - forcing him to take a blood sub. A shitty D point has halftime eluding the Hodags and it must wait for a chilly 8-5 half. With chilly handlers and fast cutters - Wisco Offensive unit was tactical with their attack. Meanwhile, Tim Pearce skied for a nasty goal as CUT broke to lead 11-7. Grant L got a pretty nasty under layout D, but the soft calls continued. Seth Meyer will need to overrule that snap tomorrow at 1pm in the CUT stadium. I predict strong winds, clouds, rain, freezing sleet, huge crowds, snow, and terrible blatant cheating. Tom Murray will sky UPA Starting 7 Grant - just like the beginning of Regionals just last season.
Lastly, Belladonna was ruling on Syzergy with dominant under defense and quick scores. Georgia can pull it 70 easy and breaks came in handfulls. Eau Claire was also looking to take down a bid to Nationals with Robyn eating every disc that goes up, manufacturing upwind breaks consistently.

Hh- The Luther match-up began in the deafening din of Luther alumni, out in force and smelling a first-ever nationals berth. The game began close, but their cheers and energy were quickly stifled, mirroring the Luther offense being smothered by the Hodag D. While Luther is looking good for a shot at Columbus, the Hodags brought their best game of the tournament to them, and is looking ahead to finals. Highlights from the game included Shirby opening an inch-long gash in his head and having to come off the field, and a brutal foul/strip call made by Luther being upheld by one observer that was out of view of the play, and another who didn't do much right all game. Blown call. Weather tomorrow: absolute shit. The game begins at 1pm, and both teams will be looking to avoid the extra time outdoors brought by the 2/3 game. Each team should be fresh after a surgical Saturday here in Northfield.

Hh & Muffin Embedded at Central Regionals 2

2009-04-25T11:01:00.006-06:00

M- It was Eau Claire eeking out a victory over GOP and a Sectionals Semifinals rematch. Jimmy Foster demanded to play his studs immediately, not wanting to mess around at all. The Offense took the field headed downwind and promptly broke itself 0-1 as Klane was Imperioed to turn the disc and J-Fo didn't catch his mack D, resulting on the score. It was rentless rage from that point forward when the Offense made quick work upwind, Gaynor ripping to space for T-Murda 1-1. Manny played five straight points and Wiscosnin scored 5 staight to lead 5-1 with Crumbly catching two scores. Chris Pearce admits that he doesn't know anything about frisbee as Iwsconsin takes ahlf 8-2 on Feldner's second score from Mannywood. Ozone holds out of half to make it 8-3, incensing the Offense, pissed they must play another point! After a turnover, Foster's man cuts hard under and Jimmy is right on his hip. As Jimmy bids to the disc, Gaynor appears out of nowhere, layout D'ing J-Fo and the cutter for the nasty block. Gaynor then bookends the point 9-3, catapulting Wisconsin into a deathrage. Eau Claire punts on its next possession as 10 seconds of D is so fierce, no one is open. Cullen flying burrito's a poach, snacking the disc under his unsuspecting nose. Jazzler Jizzler and Cinnabuns rampages for two breaks to win 15-4 in a barnburner. In other news, Minnesota crushed on Iowa 15-5. Skywalker, ManBearPig and Scallet have just arrived to party Fuck Cut.

Hh- The weather is turning for the better. At times it feels like a nice day to play Ultimate. The fields are soft but in good repair, the grass healthy. Eau Claire had the unfortunate task of facing a Hodag team hungry to send a message after a lackluster second half against UNI. Hodags came out firing, and chants of "Murderballs! Murderballs! Stab! Stab! Kill!" rang out, echoing down to the Bald Spot and Bell Field. The Hodags made quick work of a spirited EauZone, and took time to watch the end of the Luther/Iowa State match-up. Shirby Puckett was all over the fields, throwing not one but two needless pivots with every possesion. On the sidelines, we held our breath with bored indifference, knowing that the winner would be murdered for standing between us and our date with CUT in Laird Stadium. Luther came out on top and won the honor of a clean soldier's death.

M - The two-and-a-half-hour-bye was exhausting as Davidman ate countless Tunafish sandwiches and devoured an entire pond life of Swedish Fish. Mannywood grumbled and muttered as Wisconsin strategically switched fields for every round - something that has mysterious happened everytime Northfield has hosted Regionals. I will bet my last penny that Carleton didn't move fields. As the Luther-Wisconsin match was seconds away, Jerome began punching Mike AirRenSen straight in the mug for looking so clueless. Meanwhile, Charlie ran to the local coffee shop to mix with the commoners. Grey Duck was getting a beakfull of pwnd as Carleton throttled them to a 8-4 halftime lead. Meanwhile, Wisconsin and Lufda was an unimaginable scenario - Jimmy Foster turfing everything and dropping goals vs Shirbert non-stop. Lil' baby shirb nugs puts Luther squarely on his back, breaking the Hodags 4 straight times and stealing half 8-2. The Hodags will need a swift kick in the face to win this game-to-go. Feldner is currently unable to expell his anger fast enough.

Hh & Muffin Embedded at Central Regionals 1

2009-04-25T10:50:00.005-06:00

M- It's fuckin frigid at forty-one friggin degrees. The sleepy service attendant at the local coffee shop had the gall to ask if my extra-large coffee was a "decaf right?" No. Fuck no. I will fucking kill you if it is decaf. Jesus Christ, kid. Iowa's huge flag is whipping across the perfectly green fields, fluffy and wet, and windy and rainy... perfect. The clouds are ominous looking, but not half as scary as the Terrible Torrential Thunderstorms of last night as the wind howled and souls screamed. Game one is against UNI the 15th seed and the Hodags are... yawning as the first game is 8am.

Hh- The day begins at 5:45 in the morning. I get up to shower at Klane's and when I get out someone is playing the jukebox hits at a gay bar. It's Raining Men, YMCA, Like A Virgin, etc. I have no idea who chose this for the morning of regionals, but I contemplate murder for a moment. Two giant pans of freshly baked cinnamon rolls greet us in the kitchen and I'm placated.

Outside - drab, a gray frown drawn across the sky. Everything is wet. It looks miserable. Regionals wouldn't have it any other way. On tap today: UNI, then winner of Eau Claire/GoP, then likely Luther. If we win those three games, we qualify for nationals. I don't recall ever having seen a softer route to natties, but with 20 spots and 4 bids in the Central, it was bound to become easier. (Though, on the other hand, in the NW Stanford, Oregon, Western Washington, UW, and Cal are all fighting for two spots.)

We drop the players off and drive for coffee, then return to the fields musking in all-out Kill Mode.

M- The game begins in utter earnest as the universe line takes the field for 3 straight breaks in a row. Crumbly is unstoppable, layout snatching 2 scores. Master Masler gets a nasty layout D, as well as ripping several beautiful deep shots. Manny takes his girl O2 and breaks her to Simmons for the 4-0 start. Cullen is rampaging faces, twice hucking to Patsy for ruthless mini-hop skies 5-0. As the lines loosen so does the concentration as it tightens to 6-1. The good woman throws UNI's first goal. Foster is enraged about losing the shutout and explodes on a kid for half 8-1. Gaynor pwns out of half to make it 9-1 before a n00b line drops it 5 straight times. Meanwhile, GOP and Eau Claire are fighting for their tournament lives, locked in heated game, 11-10 EC. One of the parents showed up to see the Hodags lackadaisically throwing around and chatting. "Has this game started yet?" "Oh yeah, it's just halftime." The Feldmen were seen cheering enthusiastically for Lil' Hollywood as the winds increased and the air chilled.

Hh- Game One done with. A surprisingly feisty UNI gave the Hodags some fits at times. On the sideline, music plays. On the field the defensive O looks anything but harmonious. Although it's cool, it's also dry, and the sun has peeked out a couple of times from behind the curtain of clouds. While a bit chilly on the sidelines, those running worked up enough heat that it wasn't uncomfortable. A bit of a cross-wind keeps the throws honest and rewards the inside-out with stable distance. Altogether not too unpleasant yet, I keep my head in the game by jamming to beats from the jukebox. It's the kind of weekend where you squeeze every drop of enjoyment from those moments when it's not shitty out.

Big Little Games

2009-04-24T11:58:00.002-06:00

My mind is still thinking about the Pimpdags/Blackcat match-up from Sectionals and how fun it was to watch. I can't stress enough how good a game like that is for a player's maturity and development.

As an undergrad, I was one of two Hodags that played intramural Ultimate (the other being my roommate and best friend Tyler), and got piles of shit for it from the team. Tyler and I would go and rule over people, having to carry most of the load ourselves. When June rolled around, despite playing for the club team in Madison, summer league games carried the same focus as any game we played at a tournament. Our little high school alumni team (+friends, later) played in summer league finals 3 years in a row, winning the last two. We rocked a Badger State Games threepeat with only our summer league team, until Andrew Brown built a squad designed specifically to beat us.

All these games happened while I was still a relative n00b, and I threw myself at them with all my energy. The finals of summer league and Badger State games were held before a modest crowd, the intramural playoffs even more so, but I loved playing with something on the line (and, as someone who loved playing any chance I got, I always felt there was something on the line). With a backup cast even more green than we were, Tyler and I were forced to hoist the team on our backs and make the tide-turning plays.

Later, as I suited up for my last game as a Hodag in the College Championship finals, and as a Bravo during the finals of Club Natties, I channeled all those games into my head. The experience of being amped, playing in front of crowds and hecklers, and the desire to win at my body's expense, all those little meaningless games I played when few watched and fewer cared as much as me; it was these big little games that allowed me to elevate my play and continue to execute at my best, when others tweaked out, succumming to the pressures of playing in something "that mattered."

Sectional Thoughts from Wisc09

2009-04-24T08:13:00.012-06:00

Every year just before the start of Lent, a period of 40 days characterized by sacrifice and piety, Catholics (and now revelers in general) blow a giant wad of sin as a way of purging their urges until Easter passes. This was a time to clear the pantry of forbidden foods and drinks, and to party without restraint before their religion's business time: the most important days of their calendar. Around the world cities have great Carnivals, Rio Di Janeiro's being one of the most decadent and debaucherous. In the US, the most well-known festivities happen in New Orleans, capped by Mardi Gras the day before Ash Wednesday.

I mention these traditional party purges because the Hodags defended their sectional crown for the millionth time in a row this past weekend. Although several area teams have really come into their own recently, the tournament is still the Hodags' playground. And it's been a tradition since I started playing for the team to act ballistic with general tomfoolery for all but the last couple of games.

With winters here being harsh, unpredictable, and often overstaying their welcome well into April, the few weeks before the series begins are the longest served. Midterms come, and final exams begin calling, graduating seniors are packed with job interviews and planning festivities, and several months of non-stop training begin to wear on the stamina of the team, but everyone knows the culmination of all this work, another shot at a title, is at hand. Saturday of sectionals has become the Hodags' own Carnival of sorts, one final weekend to play and goof off with the team, taking nothing seriously, before putting their heads down and accelerating with a kick in a business-like manner till Sunday of Natties.

This year the team was in full regalia, cross dressers and hillbillies, penguins and gorillas; Dan Park even came in the most spot-on Douchebag costume I have ever seen. The weather held as long as it needed to for the grill to fire up and distribute dozens of brats and dogs, and a giant water tank held enough Donkey Punch to knock out an actual donkey. The 'Dags frolicked through the weekend and emerged victorious, and hopefully mentally rested. In two days time they'll play against Carleton in a game that could go either way, and from now until Memorial Day they're punching the time-clock and getting to work.

With the Hodags firmly under control, I spent some sideline time with the B-team. With the loss of many of their ranks to the refueling Hodags at the beginning of the year, they're as young as they have been in some time, and with area teams improving, their shot at Regionals was by no means a sure thing. A brutal blunder by UW-Whitewater got them disqualified and meant there was one less team to get past, but it still wouldn't be easy. As I left the fields on Saturday en route to Riley's, my sister's, and my birthday party, the Pimpdags were locking horns with UW-Milwaukee. The two teams were evenly matched, weather was beginning to set in, and with the Hodags done for the day the sidelines swelled.

The Hodags put aside any heckling in favor of helpful field talk, and with so many watching, the intensity of the game picked up. Both teams were playing with their season essentially on the line, and every point was contested. This was by far my favorite game of the weekend. It's great for both the Pimpdags and Milwaukee Blackcats to play in a high-intensity atmosphere, and feel the pressure of a real crowd with high stakes. As the Pimpdags' coaching and depth helped them pull away, Blackcat fought hard and conceded nothing. A few unforced errors late in the game, with their handlers feeling both the wind and pressure beginning to pick up, allowed the Pimpdags to secure the victory, but Milwaukee has no reason to hang their head. Ian Nifoussi showed leadership for his squad, and little up-and comer Steve Jansen showed heart larger than his frame. I look forward to seeing their program gain traction and grow.

Tonight, the drive into the lions' den. The circle-jerking, pocket-protector wearing, band-camp wannabe lions' den. See you in Northfield. I'll be twittering better than Ellsworth will be broadcasting at ektor_jr.

Colorado Cup 2009 - Open for Business

2009-04-20T12:41:00.002-06:00

August 1–2, Boulder, CO

The 7th annual Colorado Cup returns to the pristine Pleasant View complex (also home to UPA College Championships '08 and annual GRUB tourneys). We will once again host 32 teams broken down as follows:

8 Men's Elite
12 Women's Elite
12 Men's Open

Amenities will include trainers, massage therapists, food & drink, plus a showcase game featuring great ultimate and Boulder Beer.

Information on bids will be available soon, but mark your calendars for one of the summer's best tournaments. From the indicators so far, the Men's Elite div will be a tough nut to crack. But the Men's Open div is getting stronger each year (and any bailers in Elite will be filled from the Open), so I would encourage men's teams to get out here in any case.

Invisible Fence

2009-04-15T10:37:00.003-06:00

When Chico, my family's weimaraner, was just a puppy, full of energy and lacking any discipline, my parents invested in an invisible fence so that he could roam the backyard but stay relatively contained. All told, with purchase and installation price included, they spent nearly $500.

It took Chico about two weeks to convince my parents that the fence was as invisible to him as it was to any of us. And he was the one wearing the collar. Today the fence sits, buried under ground around the perimeter of our yard, nothing but a curiosity for the worms and beetles that burrow alongside it.

Chico was able to break through the shock collar admonishing him from leaving the yard because he wanted to, had to, be wherever the action was. So if I was leaving to go for a run, he'd brace himself and run past the zaps to where I was. It never entered his dog brain that he wasn't supposed to be at the epicenter of the excitement, that he needed to obediently sit within his delineated perimeter.

So it makes me laugh a bit when I see n00b Ultimate players at practice or in games, tethered to their field bag by a short leash only they seem to see. They arrive to their practice or game field and choose a spot to place their bag, set it down, and warm up. But once things are under way, you can always find them hovering around their bag as if, at any moment, some emergency may demand they reach inside it within a second's time.

Their team is defending the goal line? There they are, 50 yards away, maybe yelling but not leaving their bag's sight. Their team is transitioning to endzone offense? They're in the same place you last saw them, tails wagging. No teammates on the far sideline? Sorry, they just can't make it over there. What if they get so incredibly thirsty suddenly, and their water bottle is out of arm's reach? So there they are, each little dog restrained by his own invisible fence, happily obedient to its perimeter, waiting for the moment they get called back to contribute on the field, and completely unaware that their sideline game, where gigantic team-wide momentum can be built, is busy playing dead.

Good luck in the series, be as good a teammate on the sidelines as you want to be on the field.

Odd Ends

2009-04-14T11:47:00.002-06:00

A lot of turnover on Bravo's roster. Popes moving to be closer to Sarah Palin, Deaver and diapers, Chicken roosting in the east, Whit building a mixed empire, Beau moving in with the love of his life in California, etc, etc.

Wonder if Jam returners occasionally wake up in cold sweats dreaming of the upcoming season saying shit like, "Fuck. Beau on Revolver? Fuck." Cold sweats ensue.

Found it funny that Ultimate Peace, looking for teams to sponsor as a way of defraying costs for their trip to Israel, accepted UPA champs Fury's money from a fundraiser they put on, but denied them Team Partner status because their team name was too...violent. UPA runners-up, Seattle Riot, a team partner, unavailable for comment. Wonder if Brute Squad, Rage, Revolver, Colt .45, and Death or Glory applied...

Big Ass Truck is doing about as well as the Detroit car market. Name retired, players old, but a couple are making a trek for one more season with Chicago's Machine. Three bids from the Central, the race heats up.

Jack Marsh is affected by the recession; has his start date deferred in NYC. PoNY's loss, Sub Zero's gain. Tonight I embrace you as my brother, tomorrow morning as my enemy.

This series, Twitter will be my Score-O-Matic. Plan on updating from Regionals and Natties for Hodag Nation and friends at home.

Hodags do work. Old club dudes give 'em a little taste of experience and humility in a friendly match this weekend. 10 days till Regionals. Five till my birthday. Let's go.

Pre View Over Sight

2009-04-02T22:29:00.003-06:00

I am sitting in the Frisbee House, presently in its livable phase, and not the usual squalid conditions that -at their worst- recall scenes from Slumdog Millionaire. A game of beer pong rages behind me, two of its participants wearing no pants, and one slinging his cock suggestively within his boxers towards the opponents' cups. May the fly button hold, dear God.

What prompted me to drag my ass from the couch to downstairs so I could bring a jury-rigged laptop wasn't the beer pong behind me, however. It was the thing that lies before me that did that - the current copy of USA Ultimate (THE MAGAZINE!), with Stephen Presley grimacing toward me on the cover- that did it.

I just read the College previews of both women's and open, and I note that no Hodag was listed in the Starting Seven piece. Been a while. But I'm still digressing. I got up from my primo couch spot to write because of the women's starting seven listed. No Belladonnas. Whu-whu-whaat?? I ask again, what?!?

Maybe the author didn't watch nationals last year. You know, that moment when Courtney Kiesow won the Callahan award. Or maybe he was so impressed by her play then that he assumed she must have graduated. But no, because he mentions her by name earlier in the preview. Fact is Courtney is back and hungry and in murder mode. Still smiling, of course, the one that melts hearts three fields over and causes the area birdies to chirp, but her play has only improved, and with the legitimate shot to add a college championship to her Callahan hardware, she is descending upon Columbus like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter. Any Starting Seven team without her on it tells me you gotta fire the GM.

And then there's Georgia Bosscher, who makes the cutters she's defending look like Asafa Powell to her Usain Bolt. When I see her in practice I give my prayer beads another roll for the souls of the people who have to cover her. Aside from full field hucks from either side, her acme layout grabs save her teammates whenever they need it. She's as close as you can come to guaranteed money this side of inside trading. You're not putting her in the Starting Seven? Really?

If you've made it this far, I know what you're thinking right now. You got up 2-3 paragraphs ago to get your own copy of the mag so you could see what Hh is bitchin' about. You're leafing through the preview and saying, "Fucking cool it, they both got named under Wisconsin's blurb. Chill the fuck out."

And you might have a point. Except for the fact that 5 of the 7 listed 'starters' were also mentioned in their team's blurbs. Look, alls I'm sayin' is that any team coming into a game against Bella this year thinking that 2 of the best 7 players in the country aren't on the other side of the field, well, that's a paddlin'. S'all I'm sayin'. See you in the series.

p.s. So I see that UPA director Sandie resigned. Not sure if this is a bad thing or a good opportunity for the sport as a whole, all I know is that the chances of having a communications director last longer than a year and a half just went way, way up. (position currently empty!)

Teddy's Take on His Worlds Tryout

2009-02-26T04:20:00.006-07:00

Note: Bravo captain Ted Tripoli attended Team USA's tryout weekend in LA in anticipation of the World Games, and after a little prodding shared with us his thoughts. —Ed

As a disclaimer, the opinions expressed in this article are mine and of no one else.

World Games Tryout Weekend

Let me start by saying what I told everyone else and what I told Richter repeatedly by text over the course of the weekend: this was the hardest weekend of ultimate I have ever played, both mentally and physically. I won’t get into to many specifics of the weekend, so as not to ruin the surprises that await next weekend’s East Coast tryout team, but I do want to write about my experience.

Preparation
My weekend begins with me packing Thursday night. I decided that I didn’t want to check my luggage, so I planned to pack everything into my backpack and cleat bag. I had it all laid out in front of my bedroom door, ready for when I’d leave for work the next morning. Friday morning arrives; I’m tired as is normal for me when I get up a little before 7:00 every morning to get to work before 8:00. I brought all the bags I had packed downstairs, ready to bring out to my car. The morning had gone smoothly. I remembered the lunch I made the previous night, loaded my car, and drove toward work.

Departure
I work in Commerce City, a small city north of Denver resembling Gary, Indiana. My office is probably 15-minute drive from the Pike’s Peak satellite park & ride. As I’m making the drive, my head is swimming in scenarios. What if I forgot this? What if that happens? What are my contingency plans? It was your run-of-the-mill paranoia surrounding a weekend of this caliber. The drive, although slow and stressful, goes fine. As I park my truck and head to the bus stop to wait for my ride to the airport I get a sick feeling in my stomach. Cleats! Look in my bag - nothing. Sprint back to my truck, hoping I forgot them there - empty. The worst scenario I had imagined, aside from forgetting my contacts, had come true. No cleats. First thoughts that go through my head are how do I get my cleats to Los Angeles, with my flight being the last one with players/UPA workers to leave Denver. I make some phone calls pursuing the next logical step, locating a pair of cleats to use in LA. After getting phone numbers of friends who live in the greater Los Angeles area and sending probably 50 texts within an hour’s time, I finally get a hold of Bert Kang, ex-Hodag, who lives in Arcadia. Several texts later he volunteers to pick me up a pair from the store. I end up getting a new pair of Nike Mercurial Talaria at a small cost of $106, and for karma gave Bert a few extra bucks for driving and going through the trouble of, essentially, saving my weekend.

Cleats On
My room of Colorado people wakes up at 7 am to get breakfast at the hotel and get the fields by 8:30. The World Games team hopefuls show up in groups from their respective city, aside from a small Bay area contingency that arrive a little before us. After the Colorado crowd, the remaining Bay area group arrived, followed by the Seattle group. My first impression was that no one is really nervous, but more overly excited about the opportunity that has been placed before them. I felt that Greg Connelly, or Coach as many of us had begun to call him, did a great job of assuring us that everyone who stepped onto the field would have an equal opportunity to make the team.

We begin with the warm up, only a taste of what Ron “The Curse” Kubalanza has in store for us over the course of the weekend. After running several basic drills to get our feet underneath us, we went into a combine-like atmosphere with four stations: an individual interview/speech about our role on the team by Greg; a shuffling/marking drill; timed 70 and 40 shuttle runs (there and back); and an overly exhausting shuffling drill with tennis balls (seen on an ultimate training video for coaches I guess). My first station was the interview. Greg told me I would be a cutter, no big surprise. He also told me that he knows I’m short, but have the capability to play big and he needed to see that over the course of the weekend. We parted ways, and my group of ~8 people moved to the shuffling/marking station, which proved to be the easiest and shortest one. It didn’t concern me at the time, but my lactic acid limits would be tested with the 70’s and 40’s. My legs felt tighter and tighter with the 2nd 70 and into both of the 40 shuttles. My training leading up to weekend had focused on straight, shorter sprints and lifting. My legs weren’t ready for that kind of distance, after all, it is the off-season. The tennis ball drill proved to be tryout’s hardest drill, and my group does it last. First time through hurts, my legs were tense but nothing too bad. I completed it in a decent 44 seconds. Half way through my 2nd attempt, my legs were cramping and I was struggling to place the tennis ball on the cone correctly, but I wanted to break 40s, which seemed to be the standard of excellence among all the groups. I ended up misplacing a tennis ball and running a 42 second time, which was ok, but this is the event I thought I could beat everyone on, so I was nothing but disappointed.

By the time my group had finished the station, the other three groups had been done for 10 minutes or so. It was time to go on to our first scrimmage, and I happened to placed on a team that was savage for guys. Normally, when you think of scrimmages you can try to take a point or two off when you guard someone that isn’t as good, or as smart. Every team has them, but not this weekend. Point after point tested our ability to stay focused, get open in a somewhat unfamiliar atmosphere of coed ultimate and stay with your guy. These scrimmages pretty much rounded out the Saturday morning session which couldn’t come quick enough for me.

Back To It
After a Panera lunch, without hesitation we swung into the afternoon session with a short warm up. It started with a few more drills to test many aspects of the game, from cutting and throwing to marking. During the marking drill is when the nightmare began for me. I stepped out like I would for any other break mark throw, and the back spasms I’ve been unsuccessfully running from caught up with me. For the remainder of the day, you could see me lying on my back with my knees pulled to my chest when I wasn’t out on the field. The back spasms where making it nearly impossible to take deep breaths, I sounded like a K9 German shepherd after a drug chase. Short, quick breaths were all my body could handle. I did my best to keep up with the best in the game, but I’d say that effort was less than anything Team USA would consider. As the afternoon session wore on, I wore down, to the point where I was beginning to lose a lot of strength. With the day almost done, Ron got one more crack at us. Exercises with 40 yard sprints in 45 second intervals, which seemed to last 15 minutes, but in hindsight was probably more like 7 or 8 minutes. I sat down, barely able to move with knees pulled close to chest stretching my back so I could breath somewhat normally, and looked and Mac. We were both in agreement; that was the most tiring day of ultimate we had ever been a part of, but also one of the best.

Surviving Sunday
After spending much of Saturday night relaxing my back or doing Tina-prescribed stretches, my back was still tight as an E string, but feeling better. After Sunday morning’s warm up, my back loosens and is no longer a factor. This day’s main focus is winning one-on-one match ups. Both in drills and scrimmages, we were challenged mentally and physically by our teammates to win the matchup we were assigned on that point. All our drills and scrimmaging focused on that one goal: win your match up. My day is progressing much better than Saturday. I’m able to cut normally, and for the first time in 6 months I was able to jump normally. My ankle was messed up for a while, and was a very limiting factor in what I’ve been able to do over the past months. I was on cortisone for this weekend. And it felt great. The day would wind down with scrimmages and one more running drill at the end. They knew our legs were dead, and our minds were tired, but wanted to see how we would react against a set of long sprints and jogs. I’d say just about everyone reacted the way the coach wanted to see us. I believe Greg just wanted us to give 100% effort, whatever that might be at this point. The weekend was good and everyone definitely showed themselves as one of our sport’s elite.

In Reflection
After thinking back to Saturday and looking in on Sunday I realized there were only 3 or 4 layout D’s in over 6 hours of scrimmaging over the course of the weekend. I finally came to the conclusion, through pep talks by Coach and through observing the best in the game, that better decisions by throwers and the willingness of every player to always win their matchups on D were just not allowing tight D-able throws. You were either open or you weren't. A smart thrower wasn’t going force the issue when they have another superstar getting open at the same time. There was never a reason to throw something that wasn’t 100%. Most turnovers weren’t cause by D’s, but by poor throws or drops. The weekend’s mental and physical pressures began to wear down on everyone as the weekend wore on, and you could see decisions and execution suffer.

At the end of the weekend I felt euphoric, my dream of getting the chance to play for a team to represent the USA had come true. Though I thought my weekend could have gone better, I was happy for the chance. I never thought, through my years of playing hockey and soccer, that I’d ever get the chance to earn something with the letters USA on it. But I believe there is a sport in which everyone has at least a chance at greatness, and ultimate is mine.

For those in this weekend’s tryout, some friendly advice: take care of your body!

-EEE

Trembling Before Anticipated Evils

2009-02-23T04:20:00.004-07:00

"Once you lose someone it is never exactly/

the same person who comes back."

- Sharon Olds

Wednesday

Riley and I sat across from each other on worn leather couches in the upstairs lounge section of our neighborhood Borders Bookstore. We were discussing our lives in the months since the end of the club season, and characteristic of our conversations lately, it was an open and frank discussion. We each took turns opening small doors of ourselves for the other to appraise objectively and comment on. In a lull our conversation turned toward friends and our worries about them. As if on cue, my phone rang and the screen lit up with Muffin's name. I took the call. It was 9:30 in the evening.

"Yo Muff, what's up?" The usual intro. He'd planned his evening apart from us that night, both Riley and I were actually surprised to be hearing from him.

"Hector, my sister's missing."

"What are you talking about? What do you mean, missing?"

"Like, missing missing." He began to race through a series of details. His younger sister Jessica, a freshman at UW–Milwaukee, had not come home the night before, and no one had seen or heard from her since 1:00pm Tuesday, as she said goodbye to her roommate and left her suite on the way to class. Wednesday at 5:00pm, after receiving a call to the suite from her bank reporting suspicious activity in her account, her roommate called the police and sounded the alarm. A friend who she was supposed to meet on Tuesday night reported that she never showed up or contacted her. No one knew where Jessica was, and no one had a clue.

Muffin's mom had received the call shortly after the missing person report was filed, and for the next 3 hours tried desperately to reach Muffin and tell him the news. Muffin's surgically repaired foot is weeks from supporting any weight, however, and this makes little things like finding your phone and answering it epic tasks that require planning and motivation. When he finally got the news, hours of motherly hysteria had already ticked away. Now here he was, on the phone with me, unable to process the situation or its implications and asking me what to do. I took it as no small coincidence that Riley and I were together when he called, so I told Muffin to meet us at my house in Middleton where we could relax and better grasp what exactly was happening. I hung up, and Riley and I quickly gathered our things and got in my car, driving with a focused speed back to my house.

It had been almost 24 hours since I'd hung up the phone with Feldman on Tuesday night. A B-teamer had not paid his way on the chartered bus the Hodags and Belladonna had rented to drive them down to Mardi Gras, and the 55th and final spot on the bus was now open. The captains offered me a free ride and room in the hotel so that I might help them out during the weekend. Although it came on short notice and would still cost me, once there, more than I cared to spend, the offer had its appeal. Muffin's spot was already reserved, and I liked the idea of being able to revel with him on Bourbon Street one night and help the Hodags positively from the sideline all weekend. It's still very early in the season, and I wanted to be able to observe the players in a full weekend of play so that I could offer them better feedback about their strengths and weaknesses. I accepted the offer, and we made plans to touch base Wednesday to solidify the details.

But the next time we spoke it was to tell me the truant B-Teamer was claiming he paid, and so the spot on the bus they'd offered to me didn't exist. After a night of wrestling with my decision and finally making my peace with going, even allowing myself to get excited for the trip, I was pissed that now I had to redefine mentally what my weekend would be. I let Feldman know my displeasure at how this whole thing was going down.

"Let me work on it. Most likely someone's gonna oversleep and miss the bus Friday, so you should still pack your bags and I promise someone will get left behind." I knew he was likely right. Still, I wasn't in the mood to wake up at 5:00am in the hopes someone might oversleep, and told him so. He again repeated he'd look into what he could do, and hung up. Twenty minutes later Muffin called me at Borders, and now nothing about Mardi Gras mattered.

At my house, I peeled the foil off the cap of a bottle of 12 year old Chivas Regal and poured us each three fingers into distinguished tumblers of frosted glass. Saying we were unnerved would be an understatement; the moorings of our normalcy had been cut, and our minds were cast adrift.

Except for the moment when he called us to drop the news, Muffin had been on the phone with the UW–Milwaukee police, offering advice on leads to follow, people to talk to, questions to ask, and grilling the detectives about every last bit of information they had at that point. However, since the report wasn't filed until 5:00pm, the end of the business day, their ability to do anything substantive was limited. In the morning they would follow Muffin's recommendations, and look at her cell phone records and try to see if they could track down any ATM transactions that might have occurred. They would talk to classmates and look at professors' attendance sheets. Until then, we had only ourselves to deal with, and outsized worries our only company. I reached for a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo and uncorked some calm. Muffin and Riley played a game of chess, and despite dominating early, Riley's queen was captured after a careless move and Muffin picked him to pieces. In chess and life a moment of carelessness can pass without notice if one is lucky, or it can precipitate the endgame without mercy.

Muffin, for moments in those few hours, thought of something other than his missing sister. I could not. The first thing I'd done after he'd broken the news was call my own sister, a sophomore at the same university, and warn her to lock her door and not travel alone until we could find out what happened. I didn't have to stretch my imagination much to empathize fully with what Muffin was going through. Still, it was late. The futon awaited Riley; my bed called to me. Muffin left my house at 1am and drove the 40 minutes to his home so he could be there when his mother woke up, and immediately begin the search again. As I finally found sleep that night, I couldn't help trying to calculate a mathematics that didn't add up: one missing sister, zero contact, and now, with me warm and safe under my blankets, two nights where Jessica's own bed laid empty. 2am found me in a fitful sleep.

Thursday

Riley and I woke up shortly after 6:30, tired but alert. Concern has a way of cutting through fatigue to energize you. Over coffee and breakfast I called Muffin, hoping the sunrise had illuminated Jessica's whereabouts and we could all brush this off as a case of misplaced panic. Resolution would not come so easily. Muffin had taken the morning off to work the phones and get the latest information, but nothing new had yet come to light. I asked him to call me if he found out anything, and Riley hopped into the car with me on the way to his work. It was a still morning with a warming sun inside my 4Runner; outside it, cold winds dropped the temperature and burned your cheeks. I left Riley at his office and went about my own day, with Jessica trailing my every thought closely.

When I finally heard from Muffin it was close to noon. "Hector, when I got to work today the elevators were broken. I had to hop up all eight flights of stairs. The world is trying as hard as it can to break me. I won't let it yet."

He then broke down the latest, a piebald collection of clues that got us no closer to Jessica. Her bank accounts were intact; apart from a deposit cleared on Tuesday her account had been largely dormant. A cell phone had been found in her room, its SIM card missing. Her boyfriend had called her Tuesday at 3:30, and the call had been picked up, but all he could make out were ambient background noises; no one spoke. He hung up and called again; no one picked up. Another attempt a half hour later was sent straight to voicemail. She had missed her classes.

The outside world was also mobilizing. A Facebook group was started to get the word out, quickly snowballing past a hundred members. The university sent an email to all students with Jessica's description and last known whereabouts, and her friends printed out flyers and wallpapered the dorms and streets with them. On the home page of the police's website, a picture of her accompanied the phone number of a tip hotline.

Muffin sounded rightfully stressed at the end of our conversation. Jessica spoke to their mother almost daily, he said, and skipping town without telling anyone would be extremely out of character. Think of Occam's razor, I told him; the answer that made the most sense was that she was with friends somewhere and we'd hear from her soon. I did not, of course, mention the elephant in our conversation, the unmentionable thoughts that had gripped my mind and held it in a vice since I'd first heard about this whole thing; that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong on a cold Tuesday in Milwaukee and Jessica was hurt, kidnapped, or dead somewhere, and it was only a matter of time before we received the call that would confirm all our morbid fears. Instead, I told him to keep his head up, hold out hope, and assume the best.

When I hung up the phone I stayed for a moment parked outside my credit union, and exhaled. For many reasons, these last 3 months have been some of my most atheist. Still, I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and said a prayer. "God, if there is any way this can turn out well, please make it happen." I drove to work distracted.

Dinner came and went that Thursday night without an update. Muffin's sister was as lost as she had been before work. Pre-disappearance, Muff, Anne, and I had made plans to kick back in the evening at the frisbee house. I didn't know how relaxed I was going to get that evening with Jessica still unaccounted for, but Muff looked ready to take his mind off his search — for a little while, at least. We drove to the liquor store, where Anne and I each selected a six-pack of beer, and Muffin purchased a bottle of SoCo. The bottle was for the drive down to Mardi Gras on the bus, Muffin informed me, and as it was 9:00pm, I informed Muffin that the bus left in nine hours and his sister was still unaccounted for. He wouldn't hear it.

I wonder, now, what Muffin was thinking at the time. When we returned to the frisbee house and cracked open the first round of beers, I asked him if he was still seriously considering going.

"What can I possibly accomplish by staying? If I leave and they find her, then it's good. If I stay and they find her, same thing." He talked now as if strengthened by some internal certainty. I left my own questions unasked, though they played loud enough inside my own ears.

What if they find her and she's not fine? What if you're down in Mardi Gras and your mother is left alone to identify your sister in some Milwaukee morgue? I couldn't get these questions out of my head, and strangely they seemed to hold no purchase inside Muffin's. Was he thinking this, too, somewhere deep inside, and was eager to escape what would undoubtedly be his breaking point in his wrestling match with the world? Or, more likely, had he stoned himself against that reality, and had willed into his mind only one outcome, a miraculous return by his sister in the 11th hour to make this whole mess right?

You see, Muffin, more than anyone I know, has the ability to let the primitive id control his action and thought. This drive is what makes him frustratingly stubborn at times, overconfident of his reasoning. It's also the force that propels him to excel and meet every demand that he places on himself, so that any goal he sets is met without fail. In his head he had decided that his sister was safe, that all would end well, and since he believed so, it would soon be true.

These are all things that I came up with afterward, unpacking the stress and strain of these days. In that moment my mouth and eyes conveyed a shocked disbelief. On the couch there, I looked into Muffin and drank my beer.

My concentration broke. In a measure of silence, Jake entered the living room and in his traditional deadpan delivery addressed us, "It says on Facebook that they found Muffin's sister."

What? Stunned, I refused to believe it at first. I wanted it confirmed. Jake went back to the room and came back moments later. "Yeah, it says on the police website they found her."

Muffin, meanwhile, hadn't moved. He hadn't flinched when Jake spoke and he hadn't hesitated as he brought the bottle of beer to his lips and took a casual gulp. He continued on the couch as if nothing had happened except what he already knew would happen, lacking any surprise that his belief had been confirmed. The world would have to wait to break him some other time.

Six hours later, in the darkness before sunrise, Muffin threw his hung-over ass into a bus with 54 other people, and it departed for Baton Rouge. I stayed sleeping, warm and soundly this time. Mardi Gras, ultimate, the humdrum of our daily lives, all of it was relevant again.

Even now, I'm not exactly sure where Jessica was those long hours. I only know she's back, and she's ok. I am left to imagine what happened, and how loved she might feel, right now, knowing that in 36 hours hundreds of people broke from their routine to do everything they could to make sure she was safe.

The Story of Amy Boser

2009-02-20T15:11:00.003-07:00

Just kidding friend, don't worry. Last night, my nuanced, detailed, and at times frighteningly accurate breakdown of your mind's inner game will be a moment in both our lives that I will remember for as long as we're friends. But as far as your emotional undressing was concerned, where on the couch in front of a gaggle of increasingly drunker beer pong players I removed from your person the social fabric you cling to and hide behind, that's for us to remember and enjoy.

Let that couch then, and our minds in that moment we shared, be a little like Vegas, and have that memory stay there. At least until I option out my memoirs and flesh the night out into a whole chapter. Because there can be no denying this: the last 24 hours have been an intense emotional roller coaster.

But that is a story for Monday's post.

...Or not to be?

2009-02-18T10:20:00.007-07:00

It's now been a complete decade that I have defined myself as an ultimate player first and student/teacher/writer/freestyler/etc. further down. A quick glance at most of the pictures I'm tagged in on Facebook will show me either playing Ultimate, or laughing and enjoying my life with teammates and opponents who do. Yet once again, like last year, I find myself at a crossroads: play this coming season, or put competitive ultimate on hold indefinitely. It moves beyond a decision to play a silly game; when I wrestle with what to do the problem becomes an existential one.

The thing about competitive Ultimate - the beautiful and damning thing - is that it's so consuming. You can't do it successfully if you give an equivocating commitment, that road is littered with the mangled corpses of wasted seasons, where neither team nor player got much of anything out of it. Plus, I'm not one to do something like this half-assed.

So again the dilemma, to play or not to play. Last year, as I considered taking some time off, the allure of playing a swan-song season with old college teammates before their dispersal proved too difficult to pass up. If you know Andrew Brown intimately, you'd understand, and admit I made the right decision. But as I've mentioned before, Sub Zero's Madison substrate is dissolving, and even Madison Club will suffer the loss of a few of their prime players. Staying at home and helping build this team would be a labor of love that would require a role and level of leadership from me that I'm not entirely sure I can give or afford, and I'm mindful of that.

But how fun our sport, how great this community! If you're in college right now, maybe you can't quite appreciate its true pleasure. In college you've got a reset button every 16 weeks that brings with it a whole new crop of potential friends and activities, but in the working world, new people in your life are hard to come by and breaking into a social circle is a conscious and concerned effort. If you don't get along with your coworkers, your life will center around a very small nucleus of people. And that's not a bad thing, by any means.

But to play on a competitive club team is to have an entire family you can lean on in your life, and if you live far from your real family their support can't be overstated. When I moved to Boulder I had recently broken up with the girl I was supposedly moving for. I felt disoriented, at best (teammates can enumerate stories of my despondence from that year's Solstice). But I arrived to Bravo, and with my membership into that club came a home, job, friends, and future love interests all prepackaged for me to open at my discretion. It made the move effortless, and it made my move away heartbreaking.

And so my dilemma. Fuck if playing competitive club Ultimate isn't expensive, and tiring, and time consuming. It's a resource sinkhole. But all the intangible things it gives in return! When I coached at Fairview High, and the B team here, and this year with the n00bs on the Hodags, I always reiterated a mantra that I firmly believe, and that lies at the heart of my decision to play each year: this sport will take a lot of your time and dedication, but it will give back to you everything you put into it and more, in immediately tangible ways and in some you won't appreciate until years after you've bronzed your cleats.

Because for those in this bubble community, they give everything to the others inside. But for the uninitiated, that have never played, it's impossible to explain the gravitational weight of this sport and your team. Those on the outside are forever trying to clear the condensation of their normal life off the glass so they can peer into the world we have built and inhabit.

They will occasionally catch a glimpse, a foggy notion of why we play. You return from a tourney breathless with stories for your friends. You'll passionately explain to your boss why you absolutely cannot make that meeting at the end of October. Or you'll visit the hometown, and come home from an alumni game with sloppy shirt and grin, and your parents will see it in your eyes. For a moment, for me at least, you'll look happy. Content. Satisfied. And in that moment, fleeting as it is, both you and your parents believe it.

Lonely Couch Soundtrack

2009-02-13T09:37:00.006-07:00

I awoke yesterday on Riley's couch at 1:30 in the morning with a start. I'd passed out there sometime after 11, as far as I could remember, after a long stressful day and a few beers. When I'd pulled my hood over my eyes and closed them there had been a television on and guitars playing on the sofa next to mine; when I opened them again the room was empty and dark save for a dim bulb above the stove in the attached kitchen space.

The house is a case study in entropy, and Riley fights the good fight, but it remains inhabited by 5 very male people, cut from the cloth used to sew together the Man Show and dive bars. This also means they share their house with a host of dirty dishes, and random messes which materialize without owner in the communal spaces. The men there have nothing boyish about them. They're full grown bucks, with beards and body odor and nothing that could remotely be ascribed to metrosexual culture. They all smoke, be it cigs or marijuana or sheesha or anything else that can be lit and breathed in, and there is a cat in perpetual heat that rubs on anything new, so for those with allergies or breathing issues it's not the most comfortable house to relax in. But I love Riley, and it's primitively satisfying to hang out with the rest of the cave dwellers and feel all Cro-Magnonish, so I go there just the same.

I'm digressing, because this story is about why I woke up when I did, but I need to lay down a little about my surroundings before I get to that.

Of all the roommates, Riley gets along with Jason best (although, as men, they're still prone to the occasional manspat over this or that). Jason is built thick, large but not fat, as if the frame his flesh draped over was just a bit wider than the others. He's a little over six feet tall, I'd put him at 190 lbs if I had to guess, and he rocks facial hair like he's paid by the follicle. Likes Parliments and plays guitar, the classic shit. A guy's guy.

There is also a girl named Stephanie, a diminutive mixed-race cutie that lives either in the downstairs unit or next door. She's young, and looks more so with her hair poofed out in a gentle afro, and barrettes pinning the more undisciplined strands closer to her head. She's got a small, flat nose and a laugh that makes me think of a dining triangle being played by a preschool version of herself.

She also has the total hots for Jason, and sometime before December the kinds of things that happen when a guy's guy and a cute girl who likes said guy live close to each other happened: they started hooking up. Now I see her almost every time I'm over at their house, loving the boisterous attitude and the testosterone that seems to collect like a film on the walls and counter tops. She's teased by the other guys spiritedly and Jason treats her like a runt, but in the good kind of way, you know? She falls over herself for the attention, this young girl, not quite twenty, suddenly the focus of a group of dudes who are most definitely not boys, not by any stretch of the imagination. I doubt the relationship will last the next housing lease, when proximity's convenience is removed, and they find the new distance between their houses forces them to realize they really don't have much in common. They'll go their separate ways, and some day five years from now she may be taking mental stock of her lovers and wonder how that guy sneaked onto the list. Maybe not though; I'd hate to make it sound like Jason is without his charms. He's actually very personable and considerate, with a winning smile.

When I woke up I was startled and disoriented. It took me a second or two to get my bearings and remember where I was before I turned my attention again to the thing that had woken me. In the hallway down the living room, coming in clear enough for me to assume the door was wide open, came Stephanie's moans in slow crescendo. By the time I gave them a focused listen they were well into it, and if I had to judge those moans (which, laying motionless on a couch 20 feet from them, I did) I'd say they sounded wholly genuine, as if a wood nymph was pleasuring herself in a glen.

I was wide awake now, as you can imagine, and as much as I fought against it I was developing a massive hard-on, the kind that can only come from those ohs and sighs born of sincerity and ecstasy. I also had a bit of a dilemma. I had no desire to stay the night on that couch, alongside the drafty window with winter's fingers curled firmly around the seams of my pants and jacket, legs half dangling off the edge, and my neck already beginning to crick. But when to leave?

Absent loud sex noises I would have stood up and made my way to the foyer, where I would have put my shoes back on before heading down the creaky stairs and out the doors, the sticky wooden one that takes effort to close, and the wispy screen one that refuses to close without a gunshot slam. This is one of those old, noisy houses, so ill-kept, that students find and live in all along campus, and despite the fact her moans were becoming more urgent and pleading I would not have been able to leave without being detected. I imagined the moment - they would lean in hesitantly and whisper in each other's ear, "I think someone's awake in the living room!" and they would slow and stop, one still inside the other, maybe reddening a little at being so uninhibited and having been heard, their late-night sanctuary punctured by my exiting footsteps, waiting patiently for the tell-tale doors to signal that the intrusion into their lovemaking was over.

So, rather than cause them any interruption or embarrassment, I waited patiently for them to finish. It was already late, a little later wouldn't hurt me, and I assumed they'd been going for a while, so I expected to finally hear Jason's part in this symphony before the sounds would fade and they would pass out much as I had done alone on my couch. But there were movements left to play, and pause after short pause she'd come back, having found her lungs again.

I waited it out, long as I could, politely turned on but at least keeping the illusion of their privacy intact. I thought on their relationship, its inevitable end maybe less than months away, and these two people very much enjoying themselves. I remember, too, being twenty. It's that all-too dangerous time when two years of college seem to hang like heavy pelts from the belt of experience and you feel adult and empowered, long before you have the maturity and awareness to recognize just how young you really were. I had that relationship, with the girl far too old for me, but I could talk a good game and I was as virile as I was naive. We stayed together until distance, too, showed us just how really far apart we were in temperament and life.

Lost for a moment in the glow of my own memories, I zoned back in to her moans that showed no signs of stopping, indeed they were forming words now (the usual things that get said in the heat of the moment, your oh gods and what-have-yous). My patience for their coda had run out, and I was getting sleepy again and missing the warmth of my own bed and reckless youth. I stood up, put my shoes on, and began the audial fanfare that would signal my presence. The sounds from the bedroom stopped, and as I went down the stairs I heard her ask, in sotto voce, "did you hear something?"

"I did," I thought to myself as I drove home. I had heard the notes of a playful romance harmonizing with the sighs of my own wistfulness as I reminisced on who I'd been before.

Should'na left you

2009-02-12T07:57:00.009-07:00

Hey buddy. It's been a while. Truths be told, I ain't had the desire to write about Ultimate in a bit. Sure, the occasional musing or memory, but none yet have compelled me to sit down. But I'm sick as a dog today, and I'd rather do this than surf the web and all its vacuous content.

First, the band is breaking up, I'm certain. The Sub Zero experiment, fun and successful in its own right for 4 years, sang its swan song in the 9als against regional rival Machine. At season's end, many of the Wisconsin alumni that provided the magnet for Madison talent moved away, and Madison club came into its own. So much so, that had the commuters stayed home, this year as in 2004, Madison and Sub Zero would have been very evenly matched at regionals, and would have left Machine touring the Navy pier on Halloween weekend.

Needless to say, I highly doubt there will be any Madison commute to the twin cities this year. No one explained just how much it sucks to get in a car at 6am Saturday morning and tighten up for the next 4 hours. This large commuter group, maybe, can be blamed as the reason why we were never able to gel as a team, and why, although we played the top teams to the wire time after time, we never won any of those games this year. Some may look back at Sub Zero 2008 and call it the great team that never was. I will look back on it fondly, happy to have played again with some of the best friends I have.

The cutting of the Madison umbilical will force Sub Zero to take loads of young talent this coming season. They will be green as fuck, but I think the divorce will ultimately help out the Minnesota college ultimate programs, who will benefit from their best players gaining valuable club experience. And this also puts Machine in the driver's seat this coming season, as long as they manage to stop turning it brutally on offense. However, with three bids to Natties next year, the Central could be represented by any number of teams in Sarasota next year. Madcow and BAT showed they have a ways to go, but another year changes much.

Changing gears a little, Pride of New York is on the receiving end of a blockbuster Midwest diaspora. Jack Marsh, CallDan Heijmen, and Kevin Riley are all set to take a bite out of the Big Apple and strap on cleats at PONY tryouts. The young squad instantly gets better with the addition of two prime-time, intelligent cutters and a stable, consistent handler moving the disc. I rate PONY a buy.

And now for the real impetus to write: among many great stories of the 2008 club season, my favorite. Not only for the players involved (whom I will not name, for their own protection), but for the hilarious circumstances under which it all happened.

Labor Day's waxing hours, and the tournament party isn't in full swing so much as free-falling from its pendulum string. Having narrowly avoided arrest in a parking lot, Muffin, my brother, and I went looking for more trouble to get into or witness. I found it at the bar where Damien Scott was (now famously) ringing up a $1700 bar tab and passing out drinks to anyone around like proselytizers hand out Testaments. The tab is important only so that you understand the levels of alcohol that were being consumed. I leave you to infer the sobriety states of these stud players.

At some point, a group of jokesters whose names you would recognize decided it was time to play jester. Among them one stepped forward to fill an entire pitcher of beer with piss, and when it was full in all its IPA frothiness, they left it on a table with a clean empty pint glass, then moved away and staked out spots nearby where they could all see what unsuspecting fool would come and take advantage of a free pitcher of beer.

Moments later a gigantic, muscular Hispanic steps to the plate. Instantly the members of the group recognize two things: this man does not play ultimate, and if he gets duped and recognizes the setup, he will fly into a murderous rage.

Across the group eyes met, and they all held the same pupil-dilating message: DO NOT, under any circumstances, crack up and laugh when he takes a drink, or you will be killed and the rest of the group will disavow knowledge of who you are. Hombre Músculo looks at heady pitcher, looks around, grabs the pint, and pours himself a full draught. Raises glass to lips, neglects to inspect the bouquet, takes a sip. Finding something amiss, he dips two fingers into the pitcher and brings them to his nose. Sets down glass, looks around, exits bar quickly. Dudes lose it.

But they weren't done yet. The group decided that the aggro behavior a Worlds Runner Up had been demonstrating all night needed to be checked. For every action an opposite reaction type thing. Karma, if you will. They decided to let fate and a Rosham decide who would bring WRU back to balance, loser pours the pitcher of brew over his head. The Rosham's loser didn't feel like he'd lost at all, considering the behavior he'd been putting up with all night from WRU. Calmly he poured the contents down onto the unsuspecting head of WRU. Too far gone to retaliate in any way, WRU more or less left it at that, and the group moved on their way.

It's interesting to note how dehydrated two days of high-quality ultimate leaves you, and how concentrated urea becomes a golden amber when placed in a clear receptacle. Unclear in this whole story are whether the unsuspecting victim even knows or remembers, to this day, what happened and how it went down. But you can be sure the pranksters involved do.

Fuck, what a crazy season it was.

Note: Thanks to a few witnesses and participants, the story has been edited to set the record straight. —Ed.

Why Breaking Up With Your Girlfriend Will Make You Better At Ultimate…

2009-01-10T07:53:00.002-07:00

… because when you are in season she’s not really your girlfriend anyways. She’s just the girl you see occasionally for casseroles and comfort.

The long season has been weighing down your energy. The last 8-9 months of training, practice, and team functions have begun to take their toll. The final semester is winding down and sleep is being replaced with all-nighters to finish 8-page papers and to cram for the next 3 back-to-back-to-back final exams. Your immune system is taking a beating, as well as your legs, which feel worse after each late night running practice. Something needs to give for this trend to continue – because day dreaming about disc in class has become harder and harder. Not because class is all that enthralling, but because personal issues have popped up. You begin to ponder using Frisbee as an escape from all life’s real problems. Because when you get to practice, you can leave all your other baggage behind. For two hours it doesn’t matter. No school, no girl, no excuses. All of those issues will only interrupt your play. You need to be focused at practice – you need to work hard and work smart. It’s that simple. It starts at practice. Be consistent and come every day prepared.

But with all this preparing and practice, your girlfriend is finally getting fed up with the lack of quality time, and is almost ready for the most dreaded ultimatum. After a brutal 4 hour long argument in which you blew off starting your paper due in 2 days, the disagreements reached a boiling point. She lashes out, “All you seem to care about is ultimate! You leave every weekend and never find time to call.” You make all the appropriate excuses, “I will find time for you. I’m only gone 3 weekends next month.” You attempt to make her understand that the season is gearing up and the most important tournaments are yet to come. Finally she can’t take it, “It’s either ultimate or me.” You take a moment to consider the circumstances, not wanting to sacrifice either priority. She obviously doesn’t understand that you can’t do anything about the limited amount of time you already have. “I’ve been sleeping maybe 3 hours a night for the last week,” you plead. “I'm doing the best I can.” Your words fall on deaf ears and the decision is suddenly making itself. Soon she realizes that ultimate is just more important right now, and storms out of the room.

The internal struggle begins and the questions come, rapid-fire. Let her go? She doesn’t understand and you need to focus. Frisbee is a mental game. In every game you ever play, the team that is more focused and that can push through their mental mistakes wins. Every day you have a target – Carleton, Carleton, Carleton. If that doesn't make you focus, why are you on this team? You snap back into reality. It will be the best right now. She doesn’t really comprehend serious sports you tell yourself, as you let her walk away.

When you wake up the next day, you will be a new person. Like a man unleashed, liberated, free to choose, and not a care in the world. You get chills when you think about it. You have one goal in life, one purpose; win a national title. You put your life-force into it, all your energy, you give everything. As you sit in class, you begin visualizing the sets and your positioning. You feel guilty when you finish homework instead of going to lift. You eat right and keep your body weight down. You really want it. You only have 5 years of college ultimate, how many of those days will you waste not training, not building? These thoughts fire you up, they make you hungry – the motivation is inside you and it is growling. With the extra time, the pressure to balance her with your time is gone. Regionals returns, and when wholly gripped again by the game, it will be inspiration. Everything becomes obvious and competing is easier than ever. Your thoughts are clear, your training more rewarding, and the time spent with teammates more valuable.

But you still have trouble sleeping at night because your regional rival is relentlessly invading your dreams. You resist the urge to call several days later. You just can’t send the text either, she won’t understand. How do you explain that getting a layout D takes hard work, dedication, and an exorbitant amount of time – even a little fire.
As you drive to Regionals, she again pops into your mind – but instead of feeling sad or angry – it creates a sense of purpose deep inside you. You gave her up for this – you had better show it when you step on the field – all of those distractions gone. It is time to take that frustration out on someone else; it is time to make plays. It will take focus beyond focus - even a little hate. You know deep down you really hate your regional rival. When all else fails and you need the courage to make a play – you consider hate. You decide to will your team to victory and it will start by waging war on every point – there are no excuses. The pain does not matter, you have felt worse pain. Suddenly your heart is beating through your chest, the adrenaline is kicking in, and you dig in to work harder. You dare your muscles to rip as you show no weakness. This is it, you live for ultimate. Nobody wants it as much as you do. Nobody can take it from you. Every time you want to quit, when you want to stop, think of Florida rushing the field and screaming they are number 1. Fuck Florida. Take that pain, that sadness, the worst moment of your life. Then take all of that energy and use it as motivation. You cannot be stopped. Nobody has felt this kind of pain. You've already decided you'll win. You will win.

As the last practice of the season ends and final exams expire, Nationals is only days away. You taper your body and buy into the mental preparation. It will prove the most important asset at Nationals. You consider what you’ve been through and feel the trickling sensation that your body alone can muster. The season’s pain has made you stronger – nothing will prove greater than that pain. Your nerves are on the edge. For those next three days you live, eat, sleep, breathe, think, and are totally overpowered by ultimate on a daily basis. You find yourself thinking about Frisbee nearly 99% of the time. You are ready to exhaust every ounce of energy, ability, and mental power into your performance – you would die for it. As you run through the chunnel and ready to play your first point – only then do you realize that it is the biggest tournament of the year, biggest of your life. Your pulse begins to quiver, body heat rises, heart pounds in your ears as the defense is called. This was the emotional response – no longer the mental or the physical – this point would be felt. This indeed was your soul screaming, emotion exploding setting the scene surreal. Only a snippet of this memory could be recalled later – because you in are in the moment and completely locked in. You believe in yourself, you want it badly. It is like that last little burden of pressure has been lifted and you are free to play your very best. You are free to create the fire, no provisions, no stipulations on your time and energy. And suddenly, you are playing the best you ever have.

The anecdotal evidence is overwhelming. For there is a long list of college players to that when losing their significant other – have stepped on the field and absolutely dominated; Bruss, Carrington, Zukowski, Hurst, Burkly, Heijmen, Lokke, Doede, Riley, Muffin, and Foster. The answer is spreading like cancer, more verbal therapy.

El Pollo

2008-12-24T15:34:00.008-07:00

Boulder is a quiet town, and it likes it that way. Its sense of righteousness and entitlement isn't spoken so much as insinuated, with every shiny toy and privilege marched about proudly for you to see and envy. It's comfortable to live there, the steady altitude keeping the oxygen levels right about where they need to be for you to not want to move.

As an ultimate community, we're more or less obliged to fall in. We're proud to live there, and why not? Our pride has concrete foundations: we have incredible kind, gorgeous mountains and women, and sun 300 days a year. We live in idyll landscapes and carry our lives as such.

So it's easy to see when people wander from the norm, and the status quo gets pinched along the edges. Oftentimes these people get signaled out for the real spirited ribbing, because it's glaringly obvious where they've chosen to step from the path and live life their way.

My friend Adam Simon is such a person. And to be fair, for my four years as his friend and teammate, I spared him no mercy in my gentle heckling and prodding. I would never hold back a line on my tongue; I love him too much.

He makes an easy target, but it's for this fact that I admire him most. He is unflinchingly sincere, and talks his walk with every breath. To be greeted by him at a tourney (and I've seen him do this across the country, with teams from everywhere) is to feel like you're with family that you've not seen in some time. A genuine hug, an inquiry into your life, and then two ready ears taking in your every word. It makes some people uncomfortable, those that only know him as a ultimate player. That is not surprising; in our current culture and pop-adoring climate, where everything is veneer for self-service, it's an awkward moment of unfamiliarity to be in the presence of someone genuinely interested in what you have to say, giving you his full attention.

But Chicken doesn't mind that you might be wary of his embrace. He moves as if knowing that with time and patience, you will see his personality for what it is and thus be able to take his greetings at face value.

Granted, this isn't the Chicken that I first met. It'd be a mistake to think the man he is now was a series of happenstance events. He has a plan and goal and moves towards them. Where most of us keep looking for a role to fill, Chicken created a role in his head and proceeded to become it. And what progress.

Where most of you know him, on the grass in cleats, there can be no debate about his skill. He was a screamy gyroscope of energy when i first met him, prone to meltdowns on the field or sideline, hard on his teammates and even harder on himself. He'd be so eager to produce and contribute on the field that he was often beat, lunging on the mark, getting taken deep, or forcing a throw hastily launched. He had high standards for himself and took his failures personally.

But he never diminished those standards. Rather, he went and did off the field what was necessary so he could live up to them. He went and threw when most of us sat dizzy-headed in front of a television at the Arnett House. He was the one racing Beau and Mangry at the end of practices, throwing in a few sprints at the end of workouts for gratuity. And he never let the ribbing and playful banter get in the way of his improvement.

You hear a lot less of that now around him, I guarantee you. Now the oohs and ahhs from the crowd are echoes to his own teammates' cheers with every clutch play, every big throw, every tenacious D he earns on the field.

His style off the field, an orchidaceous exercise in fashion, can also be open to criticism. But if you know him, you know he picked out today's underwear a week in advance, and that every garment and facial hair is there with a reason and purpose. He is methodical and precise. If fashion really is the attempt to realize art in living forms, he takes his time setting up his canvas to make sure the message he's putting out is as he wants it. You may make fun of him when you see what he has on, but you probably look shlubby by his side.

I know that his quest to continually better himself costs him stress and energy as he started applying to graduate schools. It was long and trying and certainly not easy. But he never gave up, and he continues to march forward, even if it has taken him away from Boulder.

I am sad to see him leave Colorado, even though I no longer live there myself. Us Boulderites, even as we poke him for our amusement, know we need him to keep life fresh, to stand so starkly on his own that we are forced to measure the world, even for a moment, from his eyes. And it's that different perspective, and his desire to always improve who he is, that will be most missed. Coco Chanel said, "in order to be irreplaceable one must always be different."

There is only one Chicken and I am glad to be his friend.

Mentex/Femtex

2008-12-04T12:07:00.003-07:00

College programs, hold off on those spring break plans just a sec.

Apparently what you know as Centex is about to experience a fissure. Cultimate will be running a Mentex tourney at the usual fields, around the usual weekend.

BUT. There will be no women's division. Not that weekend at least. The University of Texas women's team is picking up the standard the following weekend and running a women's only Centext at the Whitaker IM fields. I've talked to a few people down there, trying to pin down why the schism happened, but I've gotten a few conflicting answers. I'm going to talk to a few more people and figure out exactly what's happening.

But this is mad-bogus. Is this further fallout from C1? Will this affect joint men's/women's programs who like to hang out during spring break, or the travel plans of teams in general? Will this lessen the draw towards either Centex, and thereby possibly destabilize Centex as the premiere preseason event for the college series? And if so, what tournament might step up in Cultimate's stumble? Who's going to gain?

Weird times, man. It seems like since C1 was announced, ain't shit the same.

No Sale

2008-12-03T21:29:00.004-07:00

Is it safe to assume that Rob's Ultivillage offering this year is going to take a big hit in terms of units sold?

I'm not talking about the ripple effects of the tanking economy spreading into Canada. Nor am I disparaging Rob's product. If trends hold, it'll only be better than his last Disc "X" offering.

Rather, I'm hinting at the giant, previously faithful market that he's lost: the Seattle Club scene. Where in years past, I know many of them have purchased not only one for their house but also copies for family and friends, it strains my imagination to picture Miranda or Wiggins online ordering as many copies of the finals footage as they can to send to loved ones. Without the ego driving the wallet, how many are going to buy anyway?

"Pay attention. This is where we give up thirteen of the next fourteen points!"

Shit, Sockeye's been in finals so often lately some out of the loop might think they bought the wrong DVD when they hit play, get to the "Introducing..." portion where they show prominent players from the semis teams, and no Fish are included. Maybe Rob'll grandfather a few in for old time's sake.

For me, this was the first time in several years I didn't even make it to quarters, but Rob, put me down for two copies!

A Frosty Club Nationals

2008-11-06T20:04:00.006-07:00

Sub Zero came into the toughest tournament of the year with high hopes and a feeling of peaking at the right time. It had been a season on the brink, never finishing against the top teams, but consistently beating everyone else who sucked. A solid Regionals was rewarded with a mid-tier seed of #7, while Ring, the most unproven team in the field, grabbed the #4 seed. However, #10 seed Chain Lightning, for the second straight year, stumbled in Regionals against Doublewide despite loads of talent, experience, and solid wins.

Following veteran advice, the Madison contingent of Sub Zero took flights on Tuesday, ensuring practice at the fields on Wednesday and some extra relaxation time in beautiful Siesta Key. It would valuable advice, as the practice in the looming crosswinds was necessary.

As we approached the grocery store to get breakfast and dinner for the following nights, Ben Feldman was warned. "When we get in there and see players from other teams - you act like a stud and walk hard." As soon as Feldner enters the Publix, he begins to act silly and downright weird, throwing cereal boxes at Riley and Foster as Jolian Dahl and Mangry turn the corner. It is all smiles but both teams know they would be playing a pool play game for the top spot in pool B. Thursday was right around the corner and the swimming pool could only distract the first timers for so long, before losing sleep realizing the importance of these games.

Thursday morning came all too quickly and not even eggs, bacon, and coffee could undo Muffin's grumpy demeanor, as Malecek threatened Jimmy Foster's life for the 7th time, before Chris Rupp casually intervened to save his life. Heijmen was destined to rush to the fields as his excitement was overwhelming. Halfway to the fields, Dan looked over, surmising whom to have Feldman moon before staring eye-to-eye with Mr. Slam! "Oh shit!" Feldner screamed, quickly pulling his pants back on. It took only seconds for the aggro-fest to begin as Mr. Slam and Heijmen swerved into traffic, vying for the front position to beat the other to the fields. Callahan Heijmen took the lead, but not before Mr. Stout pulled an early move into the outer lane, seizing the lead and flexing his guns as he zoomed by. Heijmen would tolerate no such lip and thinking fast, pulls over two dividers to grab a hidden power-up and short cut to the back of the fields. Jack Marsh could only smirk and imagine his glory days at Harvard before congratulating Dan on his genius move.

When Sub Zero arrived at the fields super early on Thursday morning, it was clear a cold front was moving in as the wind was building and the air was chilly. The fields were wet with dew, but still harder than usual for the pristine Sarasota Polo Fields. The morning warm-up was crisp, fun and huck happy - but still not at the level of focus and intensity needed for Club Nationals. It became apparent for the second straight year that Sub Zero seemed awkwardly unprepared for the task at hand as PoNY jumped out to a commanding lead, just as Chain had done the previous year. Sub was 28 players deep at Nationals, all hungry to perform, but it was the Offense who was holding them back. PoNY broke first as Zero missed several hucks on the first point, and it wasn't until Heijmen found Brown for the O2 goal that Sub tied the game 1-1. Zebro's Defense was ready to murder, as both Pat C and Mike Arenson made sick layout D's, only to have soft fouls bring the disc back. Maintaing the disc, PoNY scored and broke to lead 1-4, capitalizing on a Lokke drop in the zone (the first of far too many). Jack Marsh skied for a D and pulled down a Kyle Gill forehand to keep Zero in the game 2-4. Sub Zero was not connecting on their deep game, down 3-6 before Todd Owens hucks deep to Andrew Brown 5-7. BVH goes deep and takes it to half, 5-8 PoNY and with momentum to spare.

For the second straight year, there were more questions than answers for Zero's beginning of Club Nationals. Maybe it was first game jitters, or maybe it was sheer inexperience as the average age of a Zebro is relatively youthful. However, with youth also comes rage, and a sudden change of attitude brought on by a Shane xXxplosion was more than enough to get the team fired up. Kyle Gill continues to dominate in the cross-wind, bombing deep to Grant Lindsley, tightening the game to 6-8. Grey Duck sensation Michael Arenson hadn't seen elite ultimate like this, but was relatively unimpressed by the athletic abilities of the old men surrounding him. Taking things upon his shoulders, Mike proceeds to impress his grandparents by scoring a deep forehand by Shane to make it 7-8, and then catching a snatch layout from Kanner to tie the game 8-8. Mike was so on fire, he caught a D in the lane and set up a Riley huck backhand to a galloping Dan Miller to seize the lead 9-8. Sub Zero can only press the pedal to the floor as Jack hits Jimmy Foster down the line 10-8 and for Q-Tip Miller to put a mid-range flick to Arenson now 11-8. Sam Kanner continues to make an impact, going O2 for a goal from Mark Schmelzle to give Zero a 12-8 lead on 6 straight goals. Riley is able to add one more deep huck to a backpedaling Mike Arenson 13-8 and then pull downwind. The huge blade comes in hard, and dashes just past a PoNY's outstretched hands, leading Sub Zero to holler "He touched it!" The arguing became fierce, especially with one short prick of a New Yorker, but it was expected to come across at least one Dobyns wannabe from NY. PoNY put together a run to 13-9 and then toss their own huge blade pull downwind, this one ricocheting off Rupp's hands and going out the back, prompting PoNY to holler, "He touched it!" And so it began, Sub Zero would be touching teams for the rest of the weekend. However, the score would tighten to 13-11 and a tough cup was giving Sub Zero's patient Offense some issues. Eventually a quick swing to the sideline allowed Kanner to rip a huge backhand down the line to an unsuspecting Jack Marsh, who had to sky BVH before throwing the would be goal. A travel brought the play back, but Kanner loaded up and threw the exact same throw, forcing Jack to sky BVH for the second straight time, this time with less odds to make it 14-11. PatC ends the game in style, taking down a huge bomb and spiking it something ruthless to make it 15-11 Sub.

On the field next door, Bravo was giving Chain Lightning the business - taking a huge lead and dominating to a 15-7 win. Chain was without Dylan Tunnell for the first game and their deep game was not clicking. Sub Zero wasn't exactly happy with the circumstances since Dylan had just shown up, Chain would be relatively fresh from such a brutal beat-down, and now they would be ripe to respond. Chain insisted upon keeping their red jerseys and Ziperstein insisted that Sub Zero remain white. Zero started on Offense, going downwind, and working the disc cautiously until Zip exploded for a ridiculous poach under layout D. Will Lokke's jaw dropped open so large - you would think he was trying to eat a triple-stacker, no doubt what Fat Bill was really thinking about. Sub gets the disc back and Jack Marsh flicks a perfect throw to Grant Lindsley, beating Chain deep and spiking the disc with a finger wag and tongue out 1-0. Chain got pissed and rips a backhand right through the Zone cup, deciding to bomb deep no matter what the circumstances and scoring 1-1. Sam Kanner strutted onto the field and thought, "Anything Chain can do, Sam Kanner does better," ripping it to Heijmen for a score 2-1. The wind was certainly affecting the throws and Chain went as Shane explained, "Knicky-Knack bullshit" all the way down the line before a Dylan high release scores it 2-2. Heijmen continues to keep the Frosty Offense on serve, scoring goals 3 and 4 and making Foster suck on his Kimbo Slice style beard before he would leave the field. Zero is determined to serve it to Chain and Foster, fresh off his beard sucking, gets a layout D, allowing Aaronson to toss a floaty backhand deep upwind to Muffin. Muffnuts skys some fat Chain guy and serves it up to Lokke, before he throws it out-of-bounds about 3 years to a wide open Pat C. Chain picks it up on the cone and while Fatty was hanging his head, Lightning rips it full field for a wide open goal 4-4. Back on Offense, it was Carleton-Connection of Kanner bombing to Grant, allowing Rupp to finish to Jack Marsh 5-4. Frosty was getting angry with all this trading and brought in the blizzard, giving way as Miller made sick layout D after sick layout D. Muffin snapped the mark and Miller double happiness-ed all over Chain's face, freezing the disc before spiking it 6-4. The FROSTD was determined to get revenge and broke again, Schmelzle going O2 from Mike Aaronson 7-4 Sub. Chain again went all knicky-knack down the line, closing it to 7-5. Heijmen takes a shot a little too deep forcing both Jimmy Foster and Chris Rupp to sky for D's. And then Dylan Tunnell started coughing. It was a deep soulful type of chest heaving that would make any woman weak in the knees. His eyes turned blood red and then an inexplicable sort of fire flares shot out his nose. The FrostD sideline began feeling a warming sensation and all of the Zebro momentum began to melt. Soon Dylan was jacking his flick, right down the sideline perfectly placed into the open hands of not fat Hammond 7-6. Dylan turns and stares Heijmen in the eyes and then reaches out and touches his Dark Mark, uttering the words, "That's right! I spit HOT FIRE!" With that statement, Heijmen immediately called timeout to chill the red hot Dylan. As Scrub Zero huddled back into the chilly cross-wind, Dylan was burning villages and pacing on the line - scowling in every direction. Zero was able to punch a goal as Brown hit Geo for a goal 8-6 halftime, but the towering snowman on the near sideline were beginning to show singe marks across their face. However, Chain was holding Tunnell back as Frito makes a terrible deep foul call, exposing Chain's offense to be fatter and slower then previously expected. Chain hucks again as the Bucket was caught with his pants down in the lane (wearing his halloween costume early) and brught the score to 8-7. However, Todd Owens had something to say about the heat-wave and calmly bombed a deep backhand to Grant Lindsley, once again proving to Zip that he has lost a step, 9-7. Then, the Tunnell opened up and let out his rage, bombing right down the middle of the whole field, again perfectly placed 9-8. At this point, Greg Swanson, jealous of all the Georgia attention going to "The Tunnell" decides he needs to make a difference and starts crying on the field. No one is impressed, and Dylan looks downright embarrassed as Frito screams, "Be a man Swanson!" Jack Marsh only smirks and hits Geo for the hold 10-8. Dylan sprints to line and begins doing squat thrusts on the line, foaming at the mouth for the arrival of the disc. As soon as he sky's for the hitch, he bombs a third straight full field perfectly placed bomb for a goal 10-9, only to announce in his most gloating beer pong voice, "Who's on Fiiiiiiirrrrrrrre? That's right, Dylan is on FIRE, because I spit hot fire!" If you know the rules to NBA Jam, there is little to do to stop a man on fire, save foul him. But helpless to stop a fresh Dylan, "The Tunnell" throws his fourth straight bomb upwind, only for Wooten to sky big time 10-10. But seriously, Dylan hucks again to make it 11-11. Then Sub Zero drops a swing pass and suddenly has shit their pants and dropped the lead 11-12. Heijmen can finally stop the bleeding by tossing a cold glass of haterade all over Dyan, before throwing a goal to Kanner to tie the game 12-12. Chain responds by throwing 7 consecutive high release backhands before Dylan finishes to Hammond 12-13. However, the FrostD is now pissed. Foster scored to Kyle Gill 13-13, and Miller sent deep and punched in a break upwind to lead 14-13. The game went 14-14 and Sub Zero was going upwind. The hitch was layout D'd to make it 14-15. Grant Lindsley bombed it deep to Jack Marsh to keep it 15-15, win by 2, game to 21. Chain generates a D with super pressure defense and Dylan lets one rip deep, only for the 3rd trailing Chain player to pick up the trash 15-16. Zero tries a deep huck and Chain rips it deep upwind. As experience shows, the same 3rd Chain trailing player picked up the huge Dylan huck for the game winner 15-17. Zero was devastated, with the lead late and plenty of opportunities to close the game, they choked. It was tough to pick up the pieces, but Sub Zero just needed another blizzard to blow in.

Natties Premeniscing

2008-10-28T20:27:00.001-06:00

Natties.

No other tourney, for better or worse, can so delete everything that came before it. Team disappointed with their season to date? A timely victory or two in Sarasota and the feeling shared between daiquiris by teammates can change from dejection to jubilation. Similarly, a high-flying team with nary a blemish to their record can find themselves in January wondering what went wrong after a disastrous Thursday.

Fates and Vegas betting lines can change instantly on the whim of the Atlantic winds that blow through the polo fields. A steady offense is a must if you want to have a chance against the fast, often-cheating zones and junk sets that all the teams deploy. Who’s your big backhand? Your giant flick? How good’s your weave, your lateral disc movement? Chances are if you made it to the big show you’ve got a nice toolbox to combat opponents; if you don’t, you’ll find out soon enough.

In my previous 8 club natties I’ve wrestled on sand on a Thursday, passed out face-down in the sand on a Friday, cried on the fields on a Saturday, and cleated up on a Sunday. Anything can happen, and as you gather your bearings after escaping from a barnburner and news trickles over from four fields over about a top seed that wasn’t as lucky you realize anything does happen. The first two days are exercises in surprise. But by the time Saturday comes the best teams have calmed and settled and the n00bs are exposed as such.

The mist hanging like a blanket over the fields in the morning. Strutting at the Publix. The beer garden accelerating Saturday afternoon. Walking along the beach with your frisbeemate or tourney squeeze. Sunday night at the Daquiri Deck. Helping Rob steady his hand for his Ultivillage videos. Mourning and celebrating from morning to night.

As I write this I am chilling at my beach house in full relax. I love this tournament. Love it.

Then It Begins.

2008-10-22T20:26:00.003-06:00

First Hodag practice of the year went down today, in blustery conditions far removed from No Wisconsin climatic perfection. It was cold all day, and the wind immediately tested new recruits' inadaquate throws. It was made immediately clear to all the new Hodags: shit ain't gonna come easy at any time this year. Welcome.

Running through a few drills, beginning our work on resets and marks early, all the new players seemed excited to be there, with their recently cut bretheren practicing on the field adjacent with the Pimpdags. A survivor's sigh on each set of lips.

They were rewarded at the end of the day with a taste of a Hodag tradition to warm each of them, and the first "Hodag Love!" cheer of the year, and for many the first of their careers. They don't even know how much fun they're about to have.

Muffin wrote up a tournament review for No Wisconsequences that I think is one of the top 5 tourney write-ups of the year. An instant classic Muffin.

The Call

2008-10-20T21:16:00.007-06:00

Yesterday after No Wisconsequences the captains and officers of the Hodags had the unenviable task of helping close down the tournament after a long weekend of playing and evaluating, then hopping into a car for the hour's drive back home, where they reconvened and began selecting the final roster for Wisconsin '09.

Of the 40ish people left after two rounds of preliminary cuts, 16 had to be whittled down. At the end, with only 1-2 spots left for 2-4 players, things get real. It's hard to make a judgment call about who will benefit more from a season scrubbing with the Hodags and who will benefit from a year getting lots of touches on the Pimpdags. But the decisions are made, and in the end, the captains call those who made the team to thank them for their efforts and offer them a spot on the Hodags.

Anxious to see the new team practicing for the first time, I rushed from school to the practice fields with a heavy pack bouncing across my back and thoughts of the coming year flooding my head. But when I arrived at Ubay, aside from a game of pick-up soccer clear across the other side of the field, the fields were empty.

That wasn't entirely true. As I scanned the green I saw, alone and looking chilly, a kid with a disc. He was holding it with his elbow tucked squarely at his hip, and even from our distance the grip looked awkward, and he flung it at the back of a soccer goal, whipping the net upon impact. I watched him as he walked the 15 yards he'd thrown it, picked up the disc, walked back to his spot, and flung it again. And again, and again, each time cocking the disc in his hand like an ancient archebus and firing with a distracted accuracy.

I stood 200 yards away and watched this kid practice his gestational forehand for about 10 minutes and he, oblivious to my eyes, proceeded about his meticulous training. He closed the distance from the net to 3 yards and started practicing form, trying harder and harder to whip the disc. Learning. I approached him then. I recognized him as I began to yell "wanna toss" in his direction.

His name is Min Hu, and he knows nothing about Ultimate. But the kid is fast, Jesus is he fast. In practice he ran past everyone. No one could keep up with his legs or desire. Barely speaking any English, he nevertheless tried to absorb all the information the veterans threw at him, and you could see him working over bits of strategy as best he could and trying to apply them on the field. The captains and officers were salivating to have him on the team until they talked to him and found out he was here only for the fall semester, taking classes in English. He'd return to Korea in December, and not be back to Madison until he'd finished his undergraduate and began his PhD. The captains were devastated to cut him, someone so raw but with a thirst for improvement that made even the hardest working returners feel a bit complacent. And there he was, less than 12 hours after having been cut from the team, a player alone on 10 acres of grass, throwing a shitty disc against a soccer backstop simply because he wants to be better at it.

We didn't throw. We talked for 15 minutes. I told him how much the leadership had appreciated his spirit and effort and how we wish he wasn't leaving. When it was time for me to go, he thanked me and we shook hands, but fuck - I was the one that was grateful. I remembered the jitters I'd get an hour before tryouts my freshman year. I remembered laying out for a goal in finals of Frostbreaker against a young Rhett Russ and UNCW in the spring of 1999, one of 6 points I played all game. I remembered wanting more points, and more confidence, and more speed.

The words of an email I still have, today, taped to the door of my room at my parents' house echo, an email sent by Opie O'Connell on July 10, 1999 asking us to work toward improvement:

Don't ask yourself if you want to be on the team, ask yourself what you are willing to do for the team. Do you want to have a bigger role than last season, or is someone else going to move in on your role?...What will make the Hodags a good team is improvement, TOP TO BOTTOM. If you were the best thrower, be the best cutter. If you were the fastest, be the best cutter. Offensive players, work on defense. Defensive players, work on offense...If you were the best sub, be a starter. If you were the best rookie on the team, be the best player. If you were the best player on the team, be the best in the region...How badly do each of us want this? -ope

And those words resonated with me sure enough. I took them to heart. But today, more than those words of inspiration from my captain when I was just a kid, what I feel are the words scrawled in my poor hand at the bottom of the page, giant letters that were then a message from a kid to himself, but are now a gauntlet thrown down from my youth to my adulthood, a call that only my actions can answer:

DO I WANT IT ENOUGH?!?

Yes, Min Hu. I do.

Pump It Up

2008-10-20T10:18:00.008-06:00

We're a week and a half out of Natties. The time to build any kind of physical gains in muscle or endurance is essentially over, but there is time yet to work the head game. A big part of that includes setting the mood on that jittery and exciting drive from Siesta Key to the fields, and in the warm-up time before our first game.

On Bravo, Richter and I made team pump-up CDs for each of of the rental cars. Once at the fields each person is left to their own devices, literally, while we jog and go through our preliminary drills. I know a few of my friends' teams have a team CD that contains a song from each teammate. However you do it on your team, you probably do it; pump-up music is crucial to getting you in that Kill Mode mood. So I'm asking for some input, some opinion. What's on your player these days? What tracks are bumping? I'm got a few in mind so i will link their YouTube pages (I love that YouTube has become what I always hoped MTV would be — instant gratification for my music video–watching itches).

Introduce me to some new songs. Blow me away with an artist I've not heard before. I love all kinds of music as long as it's well done. With that in mind, here are a few songs playing in my ears as I slip into Sarasota green and strap on my cleats:

Picture Me Rollin' By 2pac, a classic.
Bloc Party's Banquet song is tasty in Original or Remix flavors.
The Faint were described as "being a little too emo for you, Hec" but I like Glass Dance just the same.
MSTRKRFT's a great group, and their video for the song Easy Love is memorable for obvious reasons. Song's tight too.
I can't say enough about how incredibly disgusting Little Brother's lyrics are (in the good way). Dominant group, and the 9th Wonder production on The Getup is straight nasty.
Yes, The Knife is a weird group, and their videos feel like a bad acid trip, or a great one. Still, Silent Shout is a great song.
Aesop Rock is back on the scene with a new album, and his non-stop rhyming on the title track for None Shall Pass keeps everything thrusting forward. It does it for me.

Alright, there are a few for you to pick over. Feed me some of your sick-nasty head bumpers in the comments section.

A final note for the weekend...

2008-10-17T17:20:00.003-06:00

I will be practicing at the No Wisconsequences fields this weekend. Anyone want to share their opinions, support, or concerns about this whole thing I'm all ears, as I'm still trying to cement my opinions on this whole Conference 1 offering. I'm not intimidating in person and I welcome any discussion or debate people want to have face-to-face. I will be practicing with Sub-Zero. I'm the one that looks convincingly Mexican, you should find me fairly easily.

I promise I'll be nice to everyone but Match, who thinks I am a big bully for pointing out his egregious bullshits and insecurities, and thus with him I will behave as such.

Hh

Ins, Outs, What-Have-Yous

2008-10-17T08:34:00.005-06:00

Skip is in town right now. After a conference call between Cultimate and the UPA yesterday afternoon, they met up with the Hodag officers to discuss the current situation. I'm sure it's not the last of the conversations, as many reservations remain, and more will be hashed out when a few more of the players in this play arrive for No Wisconsequences this weekend (which shows good weather now, brisk in the low 60's with slight cloud cover).

Oh boy, where to begin. OK. Carleton and Wisconsin have become a brotherhood of sorts, and through communication have loosely decided to move together in whatever direction they decide. And it seems like the rest of the teams are in agreement: they have many reservations, want UPA cooperation, and demand a say in the final outcome, but are very intrigued about C1. They like the general premise. They think it's a good thing. They're anxious to experiment. And, despite concerns about having to change the approach to the season, having a schedule known months in advance and having every game matter sounds fun. It's exciting.

Who would have thought that in the 5 years I've been out of college Ultimate the Hodags and CUT would be loving each other like an old couple? Even I was on Carleton's campus a couple of weekends ago raising toasts and reveling with Northfield. I'm developing a mancrush on Grant and Kanner. At a house party in Stadium 205 (if i can remember the number...probably not accurate) Muffin, in full Morfin-mode and wearing a white CUT jersey, was approached by a member of Carleton's basketball team that looked like a strapping athletic buck. A paraphrased summary of the exchange:

"Hey, you play on the Ultimate team. I've been wanting one of those jerseys for a long time, I think they look fly."
"Fuck yeah. Ultimate, bra. You should come play for us."
"I've wanted to, I think it's a sweet game, it's just hard to play basketball and Ultimate."
"Are you athletic? Can you jump high? How fast are you?"
"Yeah, I can jump and run."
"What's your vert?"
"Like forty inches." (Not a made up number)
"Fuck! Dude, try out! Man, I will jerk you off so hard if you play for us. We all will, we will jerk you. Come play dude, jump over me! Jump over ME! We will jerk you so hard!"
Dude walks away slowly.
"Come back! Play for us! I will jerk you off!"

So you see, our relationship has gotten so good that even Muffin is helping CUT with their recruiting.

Moving on, there are some idiots that are decrying Cultimate's proposal as an end to spirit of the game. Asking if 5 Ultimate sponsoring this and simultaneous putting something about Spirit (capital S) on their website is contradictory. Talking about how how everyone is going to throw elbows in people's mouths. Assuming refs. Talking out of their ass without a peg-leg of information to lean on. Spirit is within. It's how you play, but more importantly how seriously you take yourself and your honor, regardless of whether there's a rule there or not. You respect yourself and your efforts now, you will respect yourself later, be it in Ultimate or elsewhere. If you come prepackaged as an asshole, you'll remain the insufferable douche you've always been. Cultimate isn't about to create a legion of d-bags that aren't already there.

This whole proposal most directly affects teams 25-32, bubble teams that put together a season magical enough to upset some of the 25 proposed C1 teams early on in the year before fading hard and fast when real shit is on the line. And the best of those teams can play into the final tourney. The proposal has the best 13 teams from C1 play in the championship tournament along with the winner of a play-in game between the best two of these bubble squads. The winner takes the 14th slot, the loser becomes the #1 seed in a 64 team C2 bracket tourney held concurrently with the championship at Devens. The winner of that bracket tourney, as well as the play-in game winner, become part of C1 for the following season, and on and on it keeps growing. You can still earn your way in, same as now. Keep winning, and your competition will keep improving. Sleeping your way to the top still not an option, but you may want to confirm that with Skip.

The teams considering the C1 option also agree that they want a seat at the table: representation and a voice on the Cultimate Board of Directors that will guide the championship league and play. One of the biggest complaints about the UPA is the lack of communication between their board and the players regarding proposals and progress, a big reason why the idea of C1 had a foothold to begin with. In talking with a board member recently, they told me that I didn't get it, how much the UPA does, and how they're talking about innovation, and that there are heated exchanges with people trying to change the sport. Well, that's the thing, no one got it because they're so closed off to communication with the general masses that we're left to make our own assumptions about what is and isn't getting done.

And it's clear from how seriously the proposed C1 teams are taking this proposal that they've filled in a lot of the blanks themselves, and found that they were troubled by how many blanks existed in the first place. And Cultimate is providing a lot of the same answers that have been talked about in dens and living rooms by these players for years. A lot of the snubbed teams are complaining that they want "their shot" at the big teams. That they're entitled to play against the best of the best. But several of the captains on these C1 teams raised a point that seemed to resonate across the group: Are they? Are the teams that play ultimate casually entitled to playing those teams that offer a substantial portion of their college experience and lives to being the best they can be at this sport?

This I think gets to the crux of what this is all about, what I was thinking in the back of my head when I wrote my Splinter Cell post. "Elite" now seems to be a dirty, pretentious word in the Ultimate community as well as the political one. But the fact is there are some teams that don't put in a quarter of the work the Hodags do. That's not an exaggeration, and I'm not arguing that they need to work as hard as Wisconsin or Carleton. They're not trying to let Ultimate rule their lives like that. But there are some teams that do, and have been rewarded with dominance in the sport as a result. No, not all the teams that do this are currently included in C1, and this will need to be addressed. But all the teams in C1 do live this life. They care about being the best. They are willing to make concessions above and beyond what most of the haters on RSD are willing to do. They are looking to play against other teams giving (and giving up) as much as they are. They are not interested in proving themselves against ragtag groups that occasionally get enough players to scrimmage at practice. They want to measure themselves against equivalent foes who have earned the right, through their hard work and dedication.

And as the conversations continue, more of those 25 teams are warming up to the idea. A season where every game matters. Opponents as vested in being the best as you are. Schedules set months ahead of time. Reduced uniform and travel costs. A push toward the summit. It sounds enticing, but most importantly, it sounds like a lot of fun.

Let's Pick a National Team

2008-10-16T15:10:00.006-06:00

[Some corrections in the Comments]
Yes, lots on our plate these days. Club Nationals, a looming college season, but I want to talk about something else. The 2009 World Games are just around the corner and if the U.S. national team wants to improve the selection process from 2005 the time to start thinking about that is now (or, weeks & months ago really, but now will suffice). Of course it's possible that the Powers That Be have thought about this already, but They've been kinda busy of late so I do not know.

Background

In 2001, through the efforts of Japan's Furio Morooka, ultimate and disc golf were invited to take place in the World Games, held in Akita, Japan. Six countries sent 10 players apiece to play 6-on-6 co-ed (3/3). As you might guess, games were brutal; conditioning was crucial to any team's success. The U.S. team won a silver medal, losing to Canada in the final.

In 2005, the World Games organizers were gracious enough to boost ultimate's rosters to 11 players each and games were 7-on-7. Injuries were particularly harsh on Canada, who saw Oscar Pottinger go down with an ankle injury. The U.S. beat Australia in a closely fought final (I believe the first time any Australian team made it to the final of an international competition. Good on ya). There are accounts of Team Canada being so completely spent -- especially in light of losing Oscar -- that they sat on the line for the last few pulls of the bronze medal match. (Read about Team USA and the WG tourney here.)

If trends continue we can hope for at least 12 roster spots for each of six teams in 2009. But if WFDF, the UPA, or the CUPA have any clout that could get bumped up to 14 (the minimum I would argue for). I know it basically boils down to housing athletes and how many beds each sport -- and each discipline -- get, but IOC officials saw good things in the ultimate matches. Decry "Spirit of the Game" if you want to, but at the 2005 World Games the U.S.–Canada roller hockey game wound up in a brawl, whereas the U.S.–Canada ultimate game ended in a happy little circle.

The 2009 World Games return to Asia, taking place in ~~the Republic of China~~ ~~Taiwan~~ Chinese Taipei. The six nations are chosen based on the previous year's WUGC performance, which means WG'09 will see these teams: Canada, U.S.A., Japan, Australia, Great Britain, and Chinese Taipei (as host country).

Team USA Selection Process

In 2001 and 2005 the national teams were selected by application: players submitted themselves for consideration, had references, and answered questions about their playing styles. Yet the surface of choice for any field-sport competition is grass, not paper. So this time around we'd be fools to take any other path. U.S. Junior National teams began real-life tryouts in 2004; it's time the adults follow suit.

Therefore attention needs to be paid to individuals at the upcoming Club Nationals. Since it's probably too late to initiate the WG'09 selection we should try to tape as many games as possible. (If I had my way players would submit their names before Club Sectionals and selection committee members would have opportunities to see these players play in person up through and including Sarasota.) In an ideal world members of the selection committee would also be on-hand for Nationals, but that seems unlikely at this point unless they've already begun the process.

But let's assume not much attention has been paid to this issue. After all, WUGC just happened and people are pre-occupied with the Club Series and the hotly debated college season. Witnessing how players interact with their own teammates and their opponents would be crucial to the decision-making process, but just as important would be a tryout camp in early 2009. To maximize its usefulness it would probably have to be a 3-day weekend. Since some of the selection committee, Powers That Be, and maybe even tryouts would likely be busy on MLK weekend I think I'd pick Presidents' Day. It would have to be warm and you might as well have some players not travel very far, so I would run it in Southern California or Atlanta.

This would be a great spectacle. The largest, sickest hat tournament of all time. Sure, there would be drills and timed sprints and sit-down conversations, but the gist of the weekend is the ~100 best ultimate players in the U.S. playing on the same field, vying for one of 12-18 spots (including alternates). Let's roll.

Shit, meet Fan.

2008-10-15T09:26:00.005-06:00

A lot of people are talking noise on RSD right now, with more knee-jerk reactions than a Deep Tendon Reflex test. I was expecting this the last few weeks, but still got caught a bit off guard by the wave of reaction. The Hodags are again converging tonight, after a marathon officers meeting last night that lasted upwards of 5 hours. Some brief observations...

For all the chatter on RSD, and all the people shitting on the idea, it's worth noting the absence of input from members of the twenty-five teams being asked to join. No doubt, they're within their wagon circle discussing the same points Wisconsin's leadership is considering.
Whoever posited that those same teams are talking amongst themselves right now is right. We made calls to our friends on those other teams, and emails have already begun making the rounds. For those talking about the possibility of half the teams going and half staying with the UPA series, they're off base. This will either work because all the teams are on board, or none of them are.
For those people who are decrying this idea, but bitch and moan about having to explain why dogs are not involved in our sport, they're talking out of both sides of their mouth. While I understand the general ultimate culture is mostly socialist and grass-roots, and thus want to keep this "about the people", Cultimate has to date proven themselves to be excellent marketers and promoters of top-quality tournaments. Their tourneys are seamless, their graphics slick, and their promotion strong. Much more focused than the UPA's approach.
The UPA, in their Revolution, outlined tiered college competition for the upcoming years already, but those on the outside of C1 are complaining most about not being able to play the top teams. Guess what? It's coming anyway. Cultimate's announcement only moved up the date substantially.
That being said, concerns remain. Verifying eligibility is the main concern, in my opinion. Making sure outside teams can play into the winner's bracket is another. Outside teams should at least be given the chance to try to prove themselves, in the way non-conference football teams still have an outside shot at playing in a BCS bowl. However,
Teams and regions have complained about bid allocation processes since there was a bid allocation process. Some teams get left out. Others get a chance. It's not equal for everyone because not all teams are equal. The majority of teams out there will, playing any of those 25 teams 10 times, lose all 10 games. The main gripes are coming from those teams that can, at times, beat several of those teams. Yet last year, even with the noise Arizona made at the beginning of the season, they got blown out in quarter-finals. If the purpose of the UPA series is not to find the best 16 teams, but to crown the best team in the country, I feel confident saying that the C1 will do that just as well. As they say in the game, "haters gon' hate, ballers gon' ball."
Still, there needs to be a fair way to make sure any good teams outside of these twenty-five have a shot at playing in the final tourney, and have a shot at playing into the league for future years. No one should be left out based on reputation alone.
Another thing there are relatively few detail about are these officials (observers? active observers? refservers?) and any rules changes that might come from that. Any changes to how things will be played need to be stated fairly early in the process.

These are just my initial thoughts. As I glance back to RSD I see that Toad has woken up, and soon things are going to reach a fever pitch. Skip gets into town tonight for the weekend's poorly named (in light of today) No Wisconsequences, and the Hodags will continue their dialog with other potential C1 teams as we move forward with the best interests of our program and Ultimate in mind.

Central Regionals Postscript

2008-10-13T09:13:00.003-06:00

The weather cooperated like a federal informant this weekend. Unbelievable all weekend long. Having lived my fair share of Wisconsin Octobers, I literally shudder to think of No Wisconsequences next weekend. In a Northwoods fall, climate like that rarely sticks around for two straight weekends of partying. On the radio this morning they designated today "the last day of summer", and already next weekend's forecast is showing a 25 degree drop in temperature. College teams, bundle up!

I saw some incredible things this weekend. I saw Skeetpocalypse shit away what certainly would have been the upset of the tournament when, winning on Saturday against Chicago Machine 13-10, they gave up 4 straight points to lose. I thought fate was on their side their final opportunity when a player of theirs had an unbelievable layout running forward to stab a hammer blading way short of target. Jawdropping. Two throws later, turn on a dump pass. Two minutes later, Machine scores, and has a collective bowel movement in relief. What a choke. Skeetpocalyse, for shame. You looked so mentally soft at the end.

Machine was having trouble adjusting to the loss of Tim Halt as their offensive gear-turner. They had a hell of a rough Saturday, losing in semis to Madison, before bolstering their confidence with a glance at recent history and knocking Madison off in the game to go Sunday.

Sub Zero brought the gum and the pain all weekend. Without much care for where we're seeded, we're poised to bring our best games to Sarasota and I'm looking forward to all the matchups we get.

More heartbreak for Madison Club, who didn't seem like the same focused team on Sunday as Saturday. After putting together an impressive performance, they could not win the one that counted, and the one I'm sure they knew they'd have to win. With a lot of new faces and the looks of a program establishing itself beyond the boundaries of the Hodags, they should build next year and improve their cohesion. It's a shame the flyest looking jerseys in the club game won't be representing in Florida.

I didn't watch much of the other two divisions, either mixed or women's, but after not being written about in the club season preview Pop is going to explode onto the scene in Florida, probably making quarters. They have many many fast, athletic, and good-looking women. Womens' teams, you've been warned. Mens' teams, you've been advised.

Hybrid Officiating: The Degnan System

2008-10-08T20:28:00.003-06:00

Let's get something out of the way: this is not about a hybrid referee/observer acting as the sole party making calls on the field. This is about striking a balance between two competing systems of officiating. So a quick recap...

Gripes with Observed ultimate (and especially ultimate without officials of any kind) from the pro-ref crowd:

Players, in the heat of the moment, are disinclined and perhaps unable to make objective calls
The nature of self-officiated ultimate -- with its occasional chat, aside, or debate team practice on contested calls -- drags out the game and renders it unwatchable. It's bad sports entertainment
Refs add authenticity & legitimacy thereby immediately inviting lucrative broadcasting contracts

Rebuttals from the UPA/pro-Observer crowd:

Our players have the discipline and respect for themselves and their opponents to call a fair game. (This argument was eloquently spelled out on this blog by a Former College Champ. Well worth the read.)
Hmmm, yes, well ... #2 has some merit. Observers are directed to ask players for reasonably quick decisions; Observers are also trained to determine the correct call and announce it summarily upon request
I call bullshit. No evidence points to this. People still see a Frisbee -- sorry, a disc -- and think of hippies and beach games. The sport's proponents need to buckle down on this conception.

As for me, I do like the Observer system and think, when perfected, it will keep most people happy. But recently I started thinking about a hybrid officiating system, a system where both players and neutral parties are empowered to make calls.

So here's the thought experiment. Neutral parties, called Observers and wearing something tasteful, number about five on the playing field, plus 14 players. Boom! 19 officials. When a player is fouled the infracted player or a nearby Observer are both able to make the call. If an Observer is not in position or does not see the play, the foul's outcome follows the current rules set-up. This prevents cheap fouls, the get-away-with-whatever-you-can tactic in ... well, in every sport I've played except ultimate.

In/out calls, travels, and up/down are all active Observer calls.

Let's say a receiver goes up for a disc and is blatantly fouled. Both the fouled player and the nearby Observer call "Foul!" Boom! Immediate judgment, play on. If the Observer makes a call and the 'fouled' player makes no call: no foul, play on.

Thus we have a system where players are still empowered to make calls, but Observers are also making active calls. When they agree, great: instantly play on. The result will be a game executed under the same principles as a self-officiated game, but with the necessary checks & balances to satisfy pro-ref blood-lust. Players won't call bad games because they won't get away with it. Refs won't ruin games because they won't be the sole authority.

I daresay this system would even lead to games where the Observers are largely unheard-from, except on in/out, travels, up/down, since players know that a bad call would be corrected (in the form of silence from the Observers).

I have probably missed some salient points, and there are likely flaws in this proposed system. But I think it addresses the concerns of the ref movement while keeping intact much of what players like about self-officiating.

Kill Mode

2008-10-06T21:34:00.006-06:00

At a recent meeting with the Hodags' current captains and officers, held to decide what role, if any, several alumni would have in the development of the team this year, we shot the shit for a while before getting down to the nitty.

Talk inevitably turned to the current crop of Hodag hopefuls, and their various merits. Aside from whether they could throw and how well, or their field awareness and prior experience, aside from all other tangible qualities the tryouts possessed, in the end the category most talked about was whether or not said hopeful possessed Kill Mode.

Kill Mode. Never clearly defined, over those tacos and beers, but agreed upon as a trait that could almost singlehandedly get you on the team. To claim that someone did not have kill mode was to cast a vote of no confidence against them in those moments when you need them most, to emasculate them and deny they posses the agency to step up and produce when the chips are down. To say they did not have KM was the beginning of an argument for cutting them. It was straight damning.

Maybe we first need to understand Kill Mode a little more before I go on. I'm not going to define it; kill mode is different things for different people. But while agreement on what it is is hard to come by, everybody knows when they've seen it. A refusal to be denied. Bids without regard for the landing. A spark that lights up the D's powderkeg. KM is how you know, soon as this guy goes in, he's going to do everything he can to accomplish his goal, that anyone could judge him at point's end and declare confidently, "he did everything within his limits, and when the moment was most crucial went beyond them." Kill Mode is a a refusal to lose, to give up on oneself, a knot in the mind that can only be undone by the accomplishment of the goal, or death.

It's been the big buzz phrase with the Hodags for the last several seasons and speaking to several of last year's outgoing class, they could clearly state moments when they felt the team collectively make the switch. As we reminisced on these moments and talked about people who it was agreed did not have KM, I wondered, is Kill Mode something innate or something acquired?

Can Kill Mode be taught? If so, some of these young whipper-snappers vying for a spot on the team deserve another look. Seeing it in action might spark it within them, and create the type of fearless defensive machines that the Hodags are looking for. But maybe it's not that it's taught so much as discovered and unleashed, a matter of finding the right end to pull on so the whole trap is undone and the beast is loosed.

So with two weeks left to go before the final roster is announced, captains and officers pay attention to the mechanics and throws, but they're looking for a little more. They're looking for signs of a dormant animal, a tinge of glow stalking the sidelines, an energy begging for a reason to bubble out of them, trapped rage like a knife fight in a closet. The Hodags want Kill Mode.

The Illicit Formula of the Shoulder Jerk

2008-10-02T10:20:00.012-06:00

The questions are eerily similar every time.

"How do you throw it so far? Do you use a different grip? Can you teach me how to do it?" From young to old, freshman to super senior, handler to cutter, everyone is looking for the easy answer. The thirst for ultimate knowledge is generally unquenchable – but finding answers is not always as easy. Often it takes adaptation and experimentation strolling hand-in-hand, slowly ascertaining small truths. But this quest for understanding can really only be realized through the journey itself. There is no one miracle tip – rather a streamline of intricacies that, when choreographed together, create poetry from motion.

But how should one approach this journey to self-discovery? Perhaps through observing and emulating – perhaps through learning and creating – or (if you are indeed asking me), through the hips. The hips? Absolutely.

The strongest major muscle group of the human body is the legs (quadriceps, hamstrings, and glutes) and coincidentally, the hips connect that concentrated power to your core. Meaning, when the body needs to create a powerful force, the energy comes from the legs, is transferred through the hips, through the core, and then - if timed correctly - through the arms depending on the desired movement. This was one sport specific concept I'd have loved to have understood years before the dawning realization reached me as a fledging, furiously cocky junior in high school.

I had played competitive sports my entire life, and wanted to dominate any sport I could sign up for as a youth (save the intensely boring game of baseball – which was a wonder anyone could stay awake long enough to play). My childhood coaches, sports camp directors, and mentors all seemed to understand the concept of utilizing power from your hips, but despite their complex descriptions and illustrations, understanding was always just out of reach. In each sport they referred to hip power with a different example; calling it the triple threat position in basketball, the breakdown stance in football, the driving shot of a single leg takedown in wrestling, the explosive arcing path of a corner kick in soccer, the top spin of a forehand winner in tennis, or the crack of a home run in baseball. Whatever the sport, what do all of these sport specific movements have in common? The explosive power always generates in the hips and, when performed correctly, can translate vectors of force coming from various appendages into one perfect fluid motion. It is truly training the muscles to fire in the correct sequence, while overcoming the body's natural resistance to learning those firing patterns.

It will take time and practice, trial and error, but the first moment you generate that power and feel the difference, new doors to performance will be opened, as if leveling up and finding all new attacks. However, the hips and core strength are two tricky animals to tether. Getting those muscles to fire in the correct sequence is difficut. But don't be discouraged – it takes practice, hours, days, weeks, and months of clumsy, stupid, awkward practice to finally hone into a movement worth memorizing.

But where should this expedition begin? Where all journeys of great importance begin – at the fountain of motivation. Wanting to perfect anything will take the time and dedication. The desire must be strong enough to endure the days when it would be easier to not practice, to not a make that sacrifice. Because it will take a sacrifice – whether that is chaffed and bleeding knuckles, a sore back, or the abstinence from homework or television – it will take time and it won't come easy.

Once the proper motivation is in place, formal mechanics and fruitful visualization will need to follow. The best way to present this idea articulately would be with a handful of analogies and stories, that when spliced together, can create the narrative.

A few general ideas will be necessary before we crack the whip, so to say. Imagine a young and inexperienced high school ultimate player – easy. Upon first picking up this piece of plastic, the only way to toss it is with a feeble and uncoordinated backhand wobble – no spin, no hizer, just jerky arm-propelled movement. There is no fluidity to the movement, no speed of release, no tight grip on the edge, no well-placed pivot to balance the movement. The attempt is ill-conceived and maneuvered without confidence. But as the player practices more and more – the disc begins to flatten, the number of Z's slowly increases, and soon the speed of the release increases as well. It took practice, but even now the player is only half-way there.

The easy lessons are replaced with more difficult concepts to grasp; degrees of torso rotation, exact finger placements of force on the rim, angles of release, and intention of S curve. As the player wants to develop his ability he must move into realms of advanced study, using forces and muscle memory to expand his range and power. But the backhand was the easy part: grip it like a handshake, and rip it. Grip it harder, throw it farther. But that elusive forehand has such different mechanics, how could you possibly understand advanced theory without anyone showing you properly? You experiment and adapt. You take lessons from other sports and walks of life – and apply their principles. The cliché holds: practice makes perfect.

Now when trying to teach this same high school player how to throw a forehand – it takes much longer because the principles are far less intuitive. There are several joints now propelling the force in a snappy action, quite different from the big backhand wind-up. The analogy which best suits the mechanics of a forehand is the crashing car scenario. A car is driving fast and there is in incredible amount of force being built up. However, the unbuckled passengers can not yet really appreciate this strong acceleration, until another force acts upon it. When the car hits a solid object and suddenly stops, all of the acceleration now lands upon the passengers, thrown forward through the windshield – going from 0 to 100 in the split second it takes the car to stop. Now imagine the disc is the passengers and your arm is the crashing car. The elbow and arm swing forward aggressively and only when the wrist snaps to stop and recoil does the disc speed out of your hand. This is the first step – understanding where the force of the movement is actually coming from. The second step is maximizing this force expenditure. This is where predetermined athletic ability, flexibility, coordination, agility, and muscle strength begin to blend into a cohesive movement – the 90 yard forehand sniper bomb.

The closest examples to a forehand sonic boom are the cracking of a whip or the hurling of a baseball pitch (close seconds would be a baseball swing, judo throw, or golf drive). These movements take energy from one part of the body and transfer it into an athletic movement that creates a huge implosion of force.

When a whip is snapped, the energy from the initial thrust moves easily along the whip, but when the wrist stops and snaps, the crack is generated from all the force traveling the entire length of the whip. When a pitcher hurls a baseball, notice the wind-up of his leg, the turning of his hips, the torque on his shoulder, elbow, and wrist. The pitcher has taken force from his legs and the ground, and then twisted his body, only for his arm to follow through on the motion, whipping the baseball using energy from his legs, hips, and core. The same goes for a baseball swing or a golf drive – the legs push into the ground, creating force, the hips turn to change the direction of the force, and the core clenches – transferring this force to the arms and hands – gripping very tightly to not lose any of the transferred energy, and when contact is made – BOOM. The same power of the hips is found in football on a tackle and even in wrestling on a head throw. If these conclusions are so obvious in other sports – why hasn't it translated to hucking in ultimate? Because no one has taken the time to break it down proper.

We will start with the secret of the shoulder jerk and then move into the realms of unknown – the hip & shoulder jerk – articulated as the super sniper bomb. The shoulder jerk begins with a powerful stance, shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, head and shoulders up, and two hands on the disc. Anyone who has to travel to throw obviously has not done their homework and clearly has not realized the benefits of a firm pivot. That pivot foot is the focal point of the force, pushing from the legs, transferring through the core, and synchronizing with a shoulder jerk to send the disc sailing. Now, the shoulder jerk involves generating force from the upper body, swinging one shoulder to create momentum, and blasting the second shoulder through, as the torso violently twists. The elbow and wrist stay locked in close to the body, but noticeably behind the shoulder attending to the violent twist. Are you still following? First, the left shoulder swings to left, creating a slight shimmy, the weight shifts from left to right and back again, but this time, the left shoulder fires forward, as if cocking a gun or pulling back a bowstring. When the left shoulder pushes forward, it is go time – turn the hips and crank on the torso, jerking the right shoulder as far forward as possible – then as long as the wrist and elbow are locked in place – all of that energy from the shoulders and core is translated perfectly into a lightning fast release, wrenching the elbow like slingshot. Theoretically it sounds easy, but the synchronization of the movement and timing of events is the most crucial part. If the timing is incorrect, the result will be likewise.

Two other considerations to the shoulder jerk, a slight step forward also brings extra momentum and the friction of the release point needs to be clean. Meaning, the "power point" of the release would be better suited if the last point of contact with the disc is smooth and crisp (like say athletic tape), rather than sweaty and sticky (like say the skin on your hand). That makes sense right? Generate force and momentum from powerful parts of your body like your legs, chest, and core, and transfer it through the arm and into the disc by the grip of the hand. The aim and curvature of the disc are also important, as the release angle of the disc should come off so IO, and with so many Z's, that it flattens and then comes back OI, usually biting just to left, right over the defenders head, setting up an easy read and total bitching. The exact grip placement of the fingers is quite crucial, first knuckle of the middle finger. Every little intricacy matters because every ounce of energy lost in the transfer – is one less Z on the disc. Lots of players have picked up the shoulder jerk and at most elite levels – this will get you a solid 50+ yards, even without a step.

But now we will move into realms of ultimate knowledge never revealed in any ultimate book. For the originals of the mythical forehand super sniper bomb are only cited in the deepest legends of Hodag Lost Dark Arts. I give full credit to Tyson Park – who ripped a 85 yard forehand in 2003 National Finals – walking the disc to the line, yelling at Joey Dombrow, and pointing deep – there was nothing either Wiggins could do: the biggest throw coupled with the fastest player is an unbeatable combination. Tyson, a proficient golfer, clearly understood, even with his small frame that turning the hips and stepping forward can create power unknown to most ultimate players. This feat has only been outdone once – in 2007 Nationals Semifinals Wisconsin vs. Stanford. After an injury time-out (Mabrowald sick layout D) the disc laid at least 10 yards deep in the Hodag end zone. Malecek put the disc into play there, and similar to Tyson, yelled for Shane Hohenstein to take off deep, already 40 yards away. The marker Cahill waited patiently at the end zone line, too slow to realize the disc was in play, and Muffin proceeded to sonic boom sniper bomb it 90 yards for the 1 pass goal – outdoing his mentor and completing the biggest throw ever.

To reiterate – the extra power comes from perfect coordination of a shoulder jerk, coupled with a strong forward step initiated by tapping into that hip power.

Now, why would I reveal all of the deepest never explored secrets of ultimate prowess? Because there are many factors that go into the delivery – predetermined genetic athletic ability, flexibility, coordination, agility, and muscle strength. For the 90 yard forehand sniper bomb to go off without a hitch – you might need to be able to bench 300 lbs – because the pectoral shoulder jerk is going to need some oomph on it. Your grip will need to squeeze so hard, that your fingers will be at risk for dislocation. So if you were not blessed with superior athletic ability, never quite developed that hand-eye coordination, or never hit the weights hard enough to recognize an increase in muscle strength – this Dark Art will still remain unknown to you.

When It Was Least Expected…

2008-09-18T17:34:00.007-06:00

He was playing hard – harder than usual.

This game was important, as it was already semifinals, yet the competitor in him was forcing the issue. He wanted a D, not just any old block, but a play that would spark the team, fire up his teammates. A brief stoppage yielded an opportunity to scan the field and yell to his teammates, “We get this D!”

And the opportunity was waiting, just beyond his instincts. “Just throw it, throw that under,” he mentally thrust at the other team. He was hungry to make a play. And finally, the other team obliged to give a chance, sending a disc into a closing window. He could tell it was coming before the cutter even knew – he could sense the space, the timing, the force, and all were pointing to the same place on the field. The defender was always first to know, for he was anticipating the cutter’s every mental synapse. “He wants the under, he wants the under,” he repeated ad infinitum in his head.

As the thrower pivoted for his release, it was go time. It was time to make a play, to disregard his body and the unforgiving fields; it was time to get sick nasty. Already visualizing the tantalizing layout D, he dug in to accelerate faster, put his head down into drive phase, and planted 260 lbs. of strength into the ground on that first explosive step. If he pushed hard enough, if he wanted it bad enough, the opportunity would not skirt by. But the cutter was choosing his angle well, shielding with his body as his cut flared to the sideline. The defender was ready for this and as he planted, he chose a new angle, one that would provide a necessary shortcut to the open side, an angle to disappear behind the cutter before reappearing in a sudden blur of athletic prowess. As he turned and planted, pushing all of his soul into the play, it suddenly went terribly wrong. All of that force, all of the desire to make a play, turned against him.

His cleat tied too tight, his heel cup too unstable, the ground too hard, and the bones in his foot too weak. That horrible sound reverberated up his leg, up his spine, and then into his mind’s eye and it was the first indication that the D would have to wait. Despite the defender’s sheer willpower to succeed and tenacity to compete, his steps were taken from him. The “pop” was omnipotent and he fell to the ground immediately, as if downed by a sniper in an open meadow. The movement was so sudden that no one seemed to notice, or else thought he slipped in the lane. For two whole seconds of blinding realization, he waited and held his breath.

“It will be fine, it will be okay,” he gritted to himself, struggling to find his footing. But this white lie was not going to go unnoticed.

“Just get up, there is still time,” but his empty words missed their mark, and he couldn’t fool his mind, which was grinding to a halt, clearing engulfed in fear. It took two attempts, as the word stalled in his throat. Finally, in what seemed like an eternity of laying on the field, he bleakly announced, “Injury,” for fear the further play would disable his teammates. Moments later, the mark and thrower acknowledged a stoppage and paused to take a look. He rolled off his stomach and curled into a protective sitting position, as if patiently waiting on the playground for recess to begin. The marker flung him a skeptical look, as if to say, “Why the hell are you just sitting there?”

He could offer no answer. The pain felt varied and unnatural, like it hadn’t really happened if he just didn’t move it. But he would have to attempt to stand and despite how he masked it behind his pursed lips and furrowed brow, the pain would get him. He attempted to force weight on it again, renewed with the sense of uncertainty. This time the pain was real, relentless, and overpowering. It was done, it was over. With a flood of despair, he motioned to the sideline, which brought the nearest teammates to his side.

“Are you okay?” with a look of deepest concern all over his face. The words again caught in his throat, and unable to speak, as if his dry-mouth rendered him muffled and inaudible, he motioned again. But the question remained, and soon he was forced to shake his head ever so slightly from side-to-side while biting his lip hard. The disappointment on his face and imploring gaze towards his closest teammate was notice enough that needed teammates to come to his aid. Their looks of distress meant little to him now, and with the greatest effort he could muster, he mumbled almost faintly, “Help me up.” It wasn’t far to the sideline now, but everything was blurring. Soon there was a pair of hands upon him, grabbing his arms, pulling him to his one foot. Their support was well intentioned, but awfully inadequate. It took less than a step for his full weight to fall upon their shoulders, and he was being carried off.

A smattering of applause was also well intentioned, but likewise, fell awfully inadequate. As he was taken to the middle sideline, his vision burst back into focus. His substitute was entering the game, and the only hands to him moments later, would be the fill-in sideline mother, gravely troubled by his every need. But he wanted no help; he wanted to lie down and die; to feel nothing; to wake up from this dream and escape his current nightmare. He couldn’t tell what hit him first, the physical pain, or the emotional meltdown. His season was over. It took only minutes to reach that conclusion, but it was inevitable. The tiny “pop” seemed to reverberate through his body and head, all over again. His eyes were closed tight as he lay on his back, elevating his leg, but it appeared that his eyelids were now only semi-permeable, for the tears began slipping through. They ran past all of his defenses. He stalled the overwhelming feeling of loss as best he could, but these tears were far too inevitable. He couldn’t stop.

He balled his hands into fists and squeezed hard, willing the pain somewhere else and feeling his blood pulse. But the sounds around him suddenly thrust an imaginary environment inside his head; he could see his teammates, working on the field, trying to make a play, and overcome with the thought of a lost teammate. Without warning, as if jumping into a cold swimming pool, he forced himself back into reality. With a great effort, he opened his eyes to the blinding day, and watched as player after player zoomed by. He hadn’t told a soul yet, barely answered a question, although many had been asked. He knew what it felt like to break a bone. The first bone he ever broke was in third grade, and it took 3 days for him to admit to his parents that it hurt too much. This break was different. It wasn’t like he collided with pavement or any other solid object; instead it was random, ironic, and mocking. Finally he acknowledged the questioners, but not before screaming an uncountable number of choice swear words into the air. He looked her in the eyes and plainly stated, “It’s broken.” As if admitting those words to another person would peel away the pain. The fill-in mother’s initial look of shock vanished, replaced with trepidation, “Let’s get some ice and elevate this,” but she wouldn’t take his words for truth just yet.

He repeated, “It’s broken. My foot is broken. I felt it.” And with another great effort, he slipped off his cleat and attempted to move his toes. He might have just tried to touch the sun it was so impossible and his toes disregarded the command. With forced determination, rising from a source of anger he tried again, “Flex!” The shooting pain rendered his imperative pointless immediately. He clutched his foot and fell back to field, eyes welling again. The next few minutes passed without incident, as he was allowed to wallow and wait, but it did not matter. He needed no condolences at the moment, he knew his fate. There was nothing to do, but wait anyway, why rush to the trainer to discover a truth he already knew? As if denial would help, he pushed himself into a sitting position to watch the game. He might have been staring at a blank wall, for nothing registered. His mind was now oddly blank as he pondered the obstacles mounting his path. After seconds of contemplation, he pushed them away; he was traveling with teammates, with friends, and they would assist him. Suddenly, as revelation after revelation hit him across the face, he concluded several facts quickly.

He could not reenter this game, he couldn’t even walk. As if God himself had blasted off his foot, he was being forced to sit and wait. It took many deep breaths before he could even see the trainer, and sure as the sun, he knew what the prognosis would be. This was a setback, a test, an obstacle to overcome, but it was more than that. It was a sign that changed needed to happen, too ironic to show itself plainly. It wasn’t losing part of the season anymore; it was losing the heart of the season, the final months. He was gulping and grasping for air now, needing a lifeline as his team faded down the stretch.

His mind seemed to go into standby for several hours, days, perhaps weeks. It was like his world had evaporated right in front of him, and he was helpless to do anything. He was injured, in the worst way, and was powerless to right the situation. It would take time, infinitely frustrating seconds, minutes, and hours. The x-ray only confirmed his suspicions; it was a Jones fracture and would need to be non-weight bearing for several weeks.The groan escaped his lips before comprehension dawned. This will be brutal. It will not be fun; it will not be over quickly.

The boot and crutches were his constant companions now, evermore reminding him of his predicament. In his mind’s eye he could see the x-ray, see where his bone was almost broken clean through, and see where his foot had been broken 5 years earlier by a teammate. This time is was different. There was no 4th year captain to kindly break the news that his season was over, but that he was still allowed to come to practice and even Nationals if he wanted. It was a crushing blow then, and his grades suffered that semester as he stopped going to both class and practice. But that didn’t matter now – nothing seemed to matter. This season, which took his time, his money, his energy, his emotions, had been unwillingly snatched away from him again. It wasn’t like a broken finger, a fractured face, or a bleeding rib, all which had been played through, this, was a cracked foot, and something he would need in the future. There would be no more running workouts, no lifting before practice, no practice. Opportunities slipped through his fingers as his limited mobility thrust him into the world of surviving handicapped. His mind longingly remembered the days when he could have gone running, when he could have lifted or tossed, and then chose not to. He surely had better ways to spend his time that day. But now, when he couldn’t run, when he couldn’t as much as walk, he wanted nothing more in the world than to run, to feel the chill night air as he pounded on the track. Instead, it would be several weeks of hand bruises, armpit shoulder abrasions, and an exhausted left leg.

His time was spent in deep reflection, assessing the damage and the future options. As if ironic karma had found him hiding, it sneered in his face, “Everything happens for a reason.” So, he was supposed to break his foot? It has taken longer than a month to understand, but the answer remains simply, “Yes.” A serious injury can be one of the biggest emotional and mental setbacks around – just ask Vince Young’s mom if you don’t think it is psychologically taxing. It was incredibly frustrating, to sit and wait on an indeterminable timeline, for nothing – for his season was surely over. He wondered out loud, how to overcome this dilemma? It has taken patience, time, and acceptance. It has taken good friends and long nights. However, this broken bone has caused him to discover, devise, and develop into something new. It provided a fresh path and different outcomes – albeit not athletic alternatives, but alternatives none the less. He could still help the team, even if he wasn’t playing. He could observe, yell from the sideline, be supportive, and watch from an outside perspective. And at the next tournament, it was like someone had removed a barrier that caused closed-mindedness. He saw the game from a different point of view, an enlightening, exciting, wholly different point of view. With nothing invested personally, with no attachment to the team as a player, he could see the big picture. And without even comprehending, he knew this break had been no random occurrence. It had been a blessing in disguise, a chance to take a step back, rest his weary body, torn and worn from 5 straight years of full time college and club ultimate, and just watch.

He watched hungrily and took in bits and pieces, things he would have never noticed in the past. The answer was waiting for him as soon as he repeated his question. What can I do? And then, as if the steps in front of him shone his path lighting up, he finally knew why he had broken his foot – because it was time to coach…