Process of Illumination

The online tempest over the Packers halftime exhibition between Radicals and a ragtag group of college guys (comprised of Hodags plus a few other ballers we're friends with) was surprising and it caught me off guard, but that's really on me. When Avery first told me that the Packers had contacted him and we were thinking of which Hodags we should send to the game, I got caught up in the moment of it, as I would have done during my days in cleats and baby blue. Were I to be one of the players going to throw breaks and score goals on Lambeau's pitch, I would have been ecstatic. Had I read on RSD (or Idris' blog roundup, to date myself) about another team going to play, my excitement wouldn't have been much less diminished.

So when Avery told me, I was fired up. What a sweet experience! For those within, at least - those without saw not what was offered but what wasn't, and the discourse (to use the term extremely loosely) since then has been a battleground centered around who got invited, who didn't, and why.

The commentary in these kinds of conversations about equity will often revolve around systemic racism, systemic sexism, systemic what-have-you. The use of systemic here isn't an indictment (although those that disagree it's a factor personally take it as one), it's a descriptor, and of course gender inequity and current cultural norms are a factor. What systemic here represents is a sum, the addition of myriad tiny decisions that lead to very real outcomes, whether intended or not.

The systemic outcome here is that ten dudes, five of which I coach, will play ten other dudes for ten minutes in front of a crowd of 80,000, and that during the planning stages of this event we did not think to invite Bella or Heist or any other women's team to be a part of those twenty people.

What often gets lost in the online discourse are the little moments and decision that led us to the sum total, and result in all these commentators taking Avery to task and/or assuring us that, in his shoes, they totally would have played it differently.

So how did it happen? Why didn't we think to invite Bella to a fantastic event with massive exposure? I alluded to the answer in my initial tweet about this whole thing as the furor started: it happened little by little, as the distance between the Hodags and Bella grew. We used to have practice side-by-side year round, indoor and out; now we have separate indoor nights and practice on opposite days in the spring. We used to travel to every tournament together; today the existing elite tournament structure has us rarely attending tourneys together during the season. The halcyon days of inter-team romance and hook-ups ensured that the teams were quite literally joined at the hips; there are no Hodag-Bella couples right now. The distance between the two team has never been greater, and we don't talk or think about how the other is doing very regularly. I'm not forging new ground here in typing that, when presented with an opportunity to invite someone, you think first of those you spend time with, and not those you don't. Of course. When you don't interact with people you begin to think of them less and less.

And I should have expected the online reaction, just as most everyone should have expected the invites to fall where they did. The distance between the two furthest Ultimate players is increasing, and the dialogue between those of us who disagree with each other is thinning. That Opi, one of the luminaries of our game right now and someone I admire greatly, would disavow her laudable work with E.R.I.C. on the basis of a five-word FB post from the non-profit's founder, shows me that not even the best among us is immune. It's far easier for us to not interact with "them". Disgust is effortless then.

I'm not here to tell anyone with whom they're allowed to be angry - it's your right, and the online world has gifted us with an unending supply of ways to tell people we disagree with to fuck off. But Big Picture consequences come from the sum of Little Picture decisions, and everyone collectively deciding that those we disagree with aren't worth our time, or are racists, or misogynists, or deplorable, or not as woke as we are - well, that tends to undermine the pride we feel in our Spirit of the Game, in self-officiation, in the notion that we are as open and inclusive as we all agree we are. How can we claim to be a sport that purports to teach how to resolve disputes through civility and conversation when we don't reflect that in our personal lives?

Tomorrow some dudes are going to play Ultimate in front of a large crowd at the halftime of an NFL game, and for those participating, I couldn't be happier or more excited. And because it's such a wonderful opportunity I understand how disappointed Bella feels in not being taken into account. Moving forward, one path might lead back online, where we'll be free to talk past each other and misconstrue arguments to our advantage and villainize each other while doing some feel-good virtue signaling. There is perhaps another path, in remembering that the personal is political. We can reach out to Bella and spend time together. We can organize and volunteer at community service events, together. We can exist in the intimacy of each other's social lives so that we're always reminded of the interconnection of our fates. We can be political by being personal with each other.

I have a little Hispanic daughter, so the issues of racism, sexism and discrimination are very near and personal to me. The demands on my time with her mean that I won't be able to directly take part in whatever Bella and the Hodags do going forward from here, but I know my players, and trust them fully as great, decent and thoughtful people, and can extrapolate that out to our female counterparts, so I have faith that they'll work it out. And as concerned as I am about the aforementioned issues, I am concerned more about our desire to push others away, to live in smaller and smaller bubbles of thought, to dismiss and belittle those we disagree with. We cannot cure any of our social ills if we continue our retreat to the comfort of the familiar.

I'm immensely proud of Avery and love him like a brother and like a son, and see no fault in how he handled all of this as it was placed on his lap. I'm excited to watch the Periscoped halftime show tomorrow and watch my friends play on a field they've seen on TV their whole lives, and to listen to their stories when they return. And I'm looking forward to what the two teams do going forward, and trust they'll build deeper connections between themselves.

I am excited for the future.

Hh

From Dan Heijmen ('03-'07, Callahan '07). He wanted me to pass this along to the CUT world at large.
*********************

The real grieving, the kind when you realize time refuses to stop and the world in all its capriciousness demands to keep going, hasn't even begun yet. Having grieved like this before, I know this, and the thought now is sickening.

I'm trying to just hold on to little pieces, going through some motions, looking for the appropriately sized frame. I sent the Hodags an email last year shortly after the New Year, and I'm not sure why but I'm compelled right now to share it with you it its entirety. I'm gonna ask that the current Dags read or re-read it, and you're free to read as well.

Also, the next post I put up momentarily is a letter from Dan Heijmen, former Hodag captain and '07 Callahan winner. He too is mourning.

Hh


From: CoacHh

Hodags,











Hh

This morning I snuck a pinch of haterade in with the ground cardamon, cinnamon, and nutmeg I usually put into my hexsspresso. And as the caffeine kicked in, so did my annoyance with a nationwide habit that players across all levels of play indulge in: the yelling of violations and infractions from the sideline.

How many times from the sideline have I heard, "Billy, that's a double-team," or, "Johnny, that's a fast count," or, without question the most abused, "DOWN!!!"

"Double team", "fast count", and "down", within the context of a game of Ultimate, are not just words, or appropriate sideline communication; they are violations with prescribed consequences; in the case of "down", it's a stoppage of play where the defense is asserting that a turnover occurred. And as such, those specific words should be left to the 14 players currently on the field, and them alone, to use.

Here are some alternatives that I endorse to my team. Rather than say the words "fast count", say, "that's very quick!" Then, at the next stoppage of play, from the sideline you can talk to your teammate and tell him, "dude is fast counting you every time." Play has stopped so feel free to say it then. Instead of "double team", say, "they're too close," "they're crowding you," or "their cup is on top of you." Then, at the next stoppage of play, talk to your teammate and tell her she's being double-teamed, tell her when it's happening, and tell her when and how to punish it. In a stoppage of play, say whatever you'd like.

But keep the word "down" out of your mouth when you're on the sideline. Don't go there at all. It stops play, and anyone on the field who hears it and stops can send the disc back to its location at the time of the infraction, which you can bet they will if, in the moments afterwards, their team was roasted. "Down" requires a disc check to put the disc back into play, and that all players be set in position.

To complain further, aside from "down!" being abused by reactionary knee-jerkers walking the sideline, it's also routinely abused by defenders on the field to stop play, second only to the travel call. Violations in Ultimate are meant to be called when you believe, in your heart of hearts, that a violation has occurred. But the burden of proof for calling a disc down has fallen so low that defenders now call it with little perspective on the disc, without actually seeing it touch the ground, with no angle on the catch, merely because they think that, hey, maybe, right? Of course, if you call them out on their lack of position to see what actually transpired, they're adamant about their call, instantly looking for the nearest holy text to lay their hand on and swear they saw it touch this blade of grass, or that one.

All this is further exacerbated by the confusion as to what happens when a disc is called down. Few seem to know play stops and must be restarted with a check, and often after a side conversation or two the offense will just put it back into play and off we go, official procedures be damned. Ugh, so annoying.

Aside from monitoring what we say from the sidelines to strike a balance between communicating to our teammates and constricting on-field play, let's raise the bar on the certainty we require of ourselves to call a disc down. You should have an unobstructed view of the disc; you should be able to see the moment it touched the ground; you should know, and not just think, hope or, extrapolating a trajectory in your head, assume that it should have been down.

SMFH,

Hh

 

One of the most important responsibilities team leaders have is setting and reinforcing team norms. Defining the right attitude for the team is the easy part; maintaining it throughout a season is the true challenge. And while it is the coaches, captains, and officers that set the team attitude, they can't maintain it alone. Deep in the season's doldrums, players from among the rank and file have opportunities to make an big impact on the team that go beyond the playing field proper. Their contribution in these times is powerful specifically because it comes from an unlikely place, and not the same tired voices.

This season with the Hodags presented the usual mid-season problems. Cabin fever sets in as the indoor season gets long, and tempers and frustation levels rise at practice when results fall below expectations. As we prepared for Centex, the bickering at practice was intensifying, and to my dismay it was coming from the elder statesmen of the team, those who should know better, who should be setting the proper example. Grumbles ran the gamut. If a mistake was made, it was someone else's fault. Someone wasn't working as hard as others. Some people were playing more (or less) than they should be. And so on, you get the point.

As I returned from Austin, I was frustrated and looking for a way to snap us out of it and recommit to working for each other instead of ourselves. And what a breath of fresh air, then, to finally arrive home and check my email and read this:

Dear Hector,

I wanted to let you know how much I truly appreciated the playing time I received this weekend, especially during the Tufts game. I know they forfeited, but I still felt extremely privileged and honored to start that game. Being lined up in the Hodag tunnel, hearing my name called, and having the opportunity to race through it was euphoric. During the eight points I played, I learned a lot from the mistakes I made and the positions I found myself in. The fact that there was a little less pressure made it easier to focus on the fundamental elements of the game, but it didn't change the intensity at which I played at. I just wanted to reiterate how grateful I am for the playing time I receive and that whatever is best for the team is best for myself as a player.

Hodag Love,

Shane Saddison-Bradford

Shane is one of our promising young players. A freshman this past year, his growth through the season was immense and powered by a fuel of the highest octane, a pure love of playing and a constant awareness that it is a privilege to do so. And to play as a Hodag, a team steeped in a rich tradition of success, culled every year from over a hundred tryout hopefuls, that concept of privilege is all the more true.

Shane's email was one of the highlights of my season. I forwarded it immediately to those on the team who needed to be reminded of its message; oftentimes as a leader your role is to get the hell out of the way and let the team learn the lesson themselves. The next three weeks of practice were the best we'd had that year, and we never looked back. And, as I'm sure the rest of his years on the Hodags will prove, neither will Shane.

Every once in a while I get sucked into some hideous comment board at CNN.com, over a hundred comments deep before pulling up, no longer able to bear such ugly civility. Has this always been the tenor of our discourse? Have we always been so rude?

I've been in many conversations about whether having the Spirit of the Game (note the caps) elevates the sport of Ultimate beyond others by enshrining in its rules that concept of Spirit, making it explicit and fundamental to the correct way of playing the game... or does it merely state what should be obvious, that in sports competition sportsmanship is necessary to ensure the validity of the results?

I find myself in the latter camp. I definitely appreciate that the concept of sportsmanship (which stripped even further reveals itself to be about effort, honesty, and integrity) is embedded in the rulebook, right there in the beginning of it, but Spirit is necessary in all sports and if you play without it, whether  you win or lose, you're doing it wrong. But like I said, I think it's nice Ultimate took the time to write it in. I reiterate this point because when I speak about my stance with people in the former camp, they collapse the meaning of my argument that there's nothing unique about Ultimate because of Spirit into this wacky notion that I don't like Spirit, or Ultimate, nearly as much as they do. Which I'd be willing to argue.

Spirit, or Sportsmanship, capitalized or otherwise and whatever you call it, is actually incredibly important to me, within and without the sport of Ultimate; it's the most important thing. Your ability to maintain poise and civility during conflict and disagreement is an entirely personal challenge, and must be a requirement of each of us living in a country that grants free speech as a right. It's what DFW called the "Democratic Spirit", and as our world continues to interlace, it'll be necessary to navigate the disagreements that will naturally arise.

Being able to make your own calls, or foul at your discretion, in competitive games is an exercise in free speech. Sure, you can do so whenever we like, but do you really want to? What happens when people decide to take their liberties to the extreme, to yell bullshit calls on the field and type bullshit comments on news sites, simply because they can? The legitimacy of the game and the civility of the argument are both drowned out.

When I took the helm of the Hodags in '10, the team carried a reputation for cheap play and lack of sportsmanship, and there had been players in the years past that earned themselves and the team that reputation. The attitude and style of play that garnered embarrassingly low spirit scores could not be a part of the team's success in its future, and the young team bought into the goal of turning the reputation around.

We finished this past season without a single chippy game. Sportsmanship was never an issue and without being flawless our bad calls were few and our positivity high. Conversations I had with coaches after games ended with agreements that the game had been hard fought and with integrity. I was incredibly proud of the turnaround the program has had in these last three seasons. So it was no surprise, but certainly an honor, to view College Natties' Spirit score rankings, and to see our nearly flawless score, placing us in 3rd after a 2-way tie for 1st with perfect scores. In fact, you have to go down to 8th and 12th to find the next two quarterfinalists. To play a tournament and have that level of success against opponents who honor you with that spirit score at the end of your game is rare, and it speaks loudly to the character and heart of this team.

I repudiate the philosophy that you have to play with hate to get fired up or win. It's the antithesis of my own philosophy and also patently untrue. More valuable than a medal at season's end is intact self-respect. At natties, we came tantalizingly close to the medal we wanted, but the results of our tests against our sportsmanship and integrity were never in question. The Hodags will continue to keep perfection in our horizon, and I'm confident our march forward will reward our efforts.

It's dusty here.

I hacked at the cobwebs above the keyboard for several minutes before I saw a single key. My computer space is overrun by piles of paper and clothing and my neural blogging infrastructure is emaciated from disuse. Still, my brain is thinking about Ultimate more often than not, and it's gotten to a point where it's spilling over into typed copy. Also Muffin's testosterone prose spreads unchecked like kudzu, and I feel obliged to restore balance. Hence, I am going to write on this blog again.

Throughout the last college season there have been myriad moments where I return home from a practice or tournament with an idea or observation chaffing at my mind like store-brand compression shorts. These would be the things that I have written about in the past but as a captain and coach I wonder if sharing them openly would conflict with our team. I certainly wouldn't give away any of our playbooks, but I wonder if some of these insights and new perspectives don't qualify as proprietary knowledge. I have previously chosen to err on the side of silence and caution.

Certainly in cutthroat patent and copyright law worlds any and all knowledge is a commodity to be owned and traded or sold, but that philosophy has never sat well with me. Ultimate knowledge disseminates itself eventually as players graduate or move to new cities and teams, and I don't think it does the sport much good at this stage in its adolescence to withhold insight and thought from each other. As the talent at the highest levels of Ultimate continues to increase, the strategies and styles teams employ will continue to evolve and differentiate. I am confident that we have not seen just how elegant and exact the game can be played, and am hoping that by sharing my pieces of the conversation I can have some part in spurring that evolution.

Hh

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

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

[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.