Process of Illumination

True story. My first five years of life I was a sickly little kid, in and out of the hospital from malnutrition and dehydration or churning myself into panic attacks when I read the news. Far from naturally athletic, I was five feet four inches and 120 pounds as a high school freshman. Writing my name almost required more coordination than I could muster.

I was as intimidating as Kate Moss, with a leper’s charisma. Hence, my biggest and perhaps only assets when I started playing Ultimate were my burning passion for the game and a desire to improve as much as I could. So I got to college, naturally got schooled during the fall season, and when the Midwest set its winter blanket over us, resolved to transform myself into Scrappy Doo. This was the only way I was going to earn playing time without any throws or field sense, and I knew that. What follows is not an outline for those of you on the world’s team, or those juniors players getting hyped, or the college players with acolytes all over their region. This is for those afraid to carry milk money, the short ones, skinny ones, weak ones and slow ones. The tired, huddled masses yearning to be a clip of the day on Ultivillage’s web site, the meek wishing to be an impact player on an elite team.

As Scrappy Doo, you’ll need to do some research first. Go watch the Scooby cartoons with him in them. This will put you in the right mindset to do what must be done. As you watch, you will pick up a few things about Scrappy. He’s fearless, or excellent at pretending he is. He is gung-ho about any plan that involves confronting the problem head-on. He is willing to sacrifice himself and risk injury without thinking twice. And he relishes his role, he’s not trying to be any of the other Mystery Machine dodes, he’s perfectly happy being Scrappy Doo.

After your research, you will be ready to start implementing them in your game immediately. Play defense, because that is all you’ll be able to do with some success. Play defense like the lives of your loved ones depend on your man not touching the disc. Play like this all the time, because your only weapon is intensity. When the disc goes up to your man, lay out. Whether you are close enough to know what he ate for breakfast or whether you’re at a different field site from him, bid for the disc. You have to prove to your teammates, to him, and most importantly to yourself that being a better player is more important than your well-being. Never feel like you’ve improved enough, that’s Sweet Guy territory and to be avoided at all costs. And be happy in your role. Every point you get, be it 4 points per game or 8 points per tournament, take a moment as you step onto the line to think back on how shitty you were a year ago, a tournament ago, a few games ago, and how fucking awesome it is to feel yourself getting better at something you care deeply about.

I’m a little taller and heavier now than I was as a freshman in high school. Also a little faster and a little more athletic. But the player I became exists because the player I was when I didn’t know a force from a foul was named Scrappy Doo.

I had a dream I won the lottery. The following afternoon I went to my corner gas station and bought a ticket. I didn't win.

It's a shame, because I had already spent the $50 million I was set to win a few times over, and holding the losing ticket, was instead forced to think of all the could-have-beens. But it led me down a interesting train of thought. How would the Ultimate community have responded to my grandiose plans for the sport with the money I almost won?

Would we welcome them with open arms and be grateful for the fact they're pumping money in the sport, however they chose? Or would we, as I suspect, demand not only accountability but also an active hand in the cookie jar they'd provide for us?

It seems that while the phrase "don't look a gift horse in the mouth" survives the times people are always ready with a hand out for a helping when it's time to split the prize. How many would be angry if the only beneficiaries of the person's generosity would be the participants of the club championships, say, all-expenses paid trip to the tourney? How many would judge them critically if they offered cash prizes to the winners of the open division only?

I did not win the lottery - this time. But I'm close. As I type this I am using a complex algorithm taking into account all past numbers drawn and the positioning of the stars to put out next week's winning numbers. I think when I do win, to appease the masses, along with several of my own more selfish ventures (pampered living for all Hodags and Bravo, among other ideas) I will set aside a trust similar in scope to the current UPA innovation grants, but with a shitload more funding. That way the voice of the people can be heard through the shouting of a vocal few who will probably still be pissed the money is not being spent they way they'd like.

Oh, and also Kyle Weisbrod would have a dozen eunochs to do his bidding so that Juniors ultimate continues and accelerates its explosive growth. Nothing would make me happier for the sport than a future in which I wouldn't be able to contribute at its highest levels.

When you become a millionaire, if you share my passion for this sport, what will you do with the money?

Since there's one thing Ultimate needs, it's definitely one more ranking methodology. With the poorly named NUMP emerging last year in addition to two UPA-driven ranking systems, we figured we throw our hat in as well.

1. Colorado
Losing on double game point and retaining almost everyone, Mamabird is the presumptive favorite to win the national title.

2. Stanford
Though losing Handler and Herbert, this team picked up Neale Mahoney (Brown '05) and retains the rest of the faceless.

3. UBC
They hang on to Hibbert and Pottinger and -- by the way -- their big time players just won Club Nationals? Yeah, they'll do okay. Don't they have their own college nationals?

4. Wisconsin
The Hodags need to shake their habit of losing big games. Enough talent to make it far, but questions remain in the coaching department. This region has one bid and Regionals in Madison should help.

5. Oregon
Finally, the last Wiggins is gone. Hating aside, the Eugene Gentlemen's Organization has been recruiting the last couple years and Oregon state's high school Ultimate scene is among the most potent.

6. Florida
Kirk Gibson and his crew aspire to get to Columbus. When they do, expect noise... and some duct tape over their UFUCT logos.

7. Georgia
Dylan Tunnell remains one of the best athletes in the college game. If his teammates can bring it, too, Jojah will be a threat. In our opinion Tunnell is also among early leaders for the Callahan Award

8. UC San Diego
Sure they lost Kubiak, but this team knows their Nationals bid is locked up. If they peak at the right time again (hint: May 27) we'll see pink bandanas on CSTV again.

9. Michigan State
Though we can't recall the last time a Great Lakes team made quarters at Nationals (hm, no, actually it was 2001) this team will look to improve on their CCC finals appearance.

10. Brown
They lost most/all of their starters, their Callahan- and Gold Medal-winning poster boy, and -- perhaps most significantly -- their Eli of a coach, Nathan Wicks.

Women's Top 10 to follow....

PROLOGUE | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

I have a routine when flying. I’m the last to board, I ignore the flight attendants, I sleep, then wake to eat and write. On the fifth of July I boarded a plane for Denver in the morning and began it. It was as any other flight; predictable, familiar, comforting. I looked out at Mount Rainier and remembered how my biggest problems always become manageable when put into perspective. The fatigue, the emotion, the pain, the drugs, the alcohol, the ultimate. Everything had been so intense and so searing that it cauterized the wound shut even as it cut me.

When I arrived at my house in Boulder, I placed my bags in my room and went directly to the hot tub. The dogs came and licked my face, I had a jug of iced water, and over my backyard fence I looked at the foothills of the Rockies. It was time to think of this place like home, I thought. I had the week off from work, mini-camp that weekend, and an entire Ultimate season to think about. I dunked my head underwater and smiled at all the ass-kicking still left to do on the field. I thought of my friends in Colorado and the teammates that would do anything for me, even pick me up from my own despair if I needed it. Sick. I was home.

PROLOGUE | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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