Process of Illumination

Oh, oh. It’s happened. There’s been a break-up, and now your fellow ultimate player is no longer together with his hot girlfriend. Which means only one thing to the predators circling her chum-infested aura: the hunt is on.

You’re resisting, though. You’ve always thought she was cute. Busty, great smile, maybe she’s got some dimples you find irresistible or you have a thing for the way she moves when she’s playing disc. Because, of course, she plays. You all play. And maybe, you and him play together. That’s the sticking point, isn’t it? You’re not quite sure if you should go after her, after all, how will he feel? You’re not like, super close to him, but you’ve hung out. You kinda like the guy. And lately, since the break-up, he’s been looking a little forlorn.

You hem and haw for a while, unsure of whether to go for it or not. Meanwhile, other guys are cozying up, taking test bites to see if they can approach for the kill, but so far she’s politely resisting. It’s been too soon. But at the very next disc party the ex checks out early, heartsick from watching dudes strike at his former girl all night. And somewhere between the third Long Island and the fourth Jaeger Bomb, you say “fuck it” and approach.

Her face is flush with the new attention, her complexion rosy, her quivering smile betraying her own mix of rum and shots. As you approach, Timbaland’s "Way I Are" blares from the house speakers and you blend bodies and start to grind. It’s fun, it’s comfortable, you’ve known each other since she was a freshman and you’ve gone out in big groups before. The song is bangin’, as they say, and the flirting is fun.

And as your cheeks get closer and the Malibu bouquet of her breath whispers down your spine, you remember old John Lyly’s Eupheus: the rules of fair play do not apply in love and war. Love, in these circles, is a math equation whose range is limited by the number of available mates at any one time. There are only so many hims and hers. And with so much time spent around disc and its people, meeting others outside the scene is tough. It requires effort. So as Timbaland fades to Rihanna and you begin to make out, looking for an appropriate exit to quit the evening and find comfort in each other, you tell yourself the harsh reality of our dating scene:

It’s not your girl, it’s just your turn.

And if it wasn’t your Schwinn she’s precariously trying to balance on as you coast downhill to her place, it’d be someone else’s. You know that. The ex knows that. And somewhere in her subconscious, she knows as well. That’s why he had to leave the party, that’s why you had to act, and that’s why you’ll remember bitterly those sweet beginnings of your relationship the day you jet out of a club with your throat in knots and her arms wrapped around some buddy of yours. It’s tough. But you’ll get used to it. After all, another couple is looking like they’ve hit a rough patch, and you and she have always been close…

I've been watching this clip all day. I can't stop staring at the power of sheer determination and grit.

The clip is of the last lap of the 10 K in the Sydney Olympics. It shows an epic battle between Kenyan Paul Tergat in a red shirt with black shorts, and Ethiopian Haile Gebrselassie in a green shirt and red shorts. With a lap left to go, Tergat finds himself boxed in and realized he has to make a move to the outside. A hundred meters later, a hole opens to his right and he blasts through it. Coming from so far outside and and blowing past everyone, he's striding and feeling confident he may have gotten a surprise jump on the front runners. Gebrselassie, then in second place, catches him in his periphery, and realizing the danger of letting him go, unblinkingly follows, leaving the current leader behind.

At 1:35, you can watch him turn to look at Tergat, then, as if knowing what was ahead, looking down at his legs and demanding that they give everything they have now. He begins to sprint all out to keep up with Tergat, who's increaing separation. They're still hopelessly far away yet they find themselves at top speed. Keep in mind these are the last 300 meters of a 10,000 meter race. Being passed is a psychological letdown in distance running that's proportional to the difference in speed between you and the guy burning you. It's hard to stay focused or not lose heart. That makes Gebrselassie's immediate reaction initially admirable. But watch closer. For the first two hundred yards of that sprint, he makes up no ground on Tergat. In fact, Tergat increases his lead. But Gebrselassie doesn't stop. He holds that pace because he knows, deep in his lungs, that he will do whatever it takes to hold this pace - his maximum effort. And he knows that Tergat, at some moment before the finish, will slow.

As they round the last bend, even the paraplegics in the crowd are on their feet. No vocal chord stilled. The mass gets louder and louder as the legs of the two runners get heavier and heavier, but they keep going, seemingly pushed by the very shockwave of sound the fans are creating. With 50 meters left Gebrselassie pulls even with Tergat and they begin their test of wills, measured side by side, stride for stride. As you watch the last hundred meters, notice how the announcer hasn't stopped talking but aside from slight feedback his voice has been overrun by the unbelieving mob. The cheers seem to peak the moment when, 10 meters from the finish line, Gebrselassie pulls slightly ahead of Tergat, but then defy their own logic and find one more level of volume as both runners cross the line, Tergat bowing his head slightly at the finish either in one last gasp for victory or a reverent pose of concession toward his competitor.

Gebrselassie wins the gold by 9 hundreths of a second. By .09s. The 10K. Pause it at 6:01 to see how close the finish was. There's a different angle that begins at 4:20 with Tergat making his move, and shows them on the final kick stride for stride until Tergat's feet slacken just a hair and Haile pushes that much harder. Tergat's face after the race is a mixture of incredulity and abject defeat. As soon as I stopped rewinding it I went and immediately worked out, hard. Unless you're dead to the world and its constant struggles, I guarantee your reaction will be the same.

(continued from Part 1)

You see, despite the fact some our most committed organizers are gone and behind bars, I began to think of the ways that my own personal interactions with ultimate will be affected. And after doing some soul searching, I realized the immediate effects won’t be much.

Thoughts first turned to the Open division of Club, since we’re in the season’s full swing. Without the UPA, there will obviously be no Championship series. But that’s hardly gonna dampen our desire for competition. Since the ‘elite’ nationals qualifying teams are all colluding buddy-buddies anyway, there’s going to be a flurry of emails while they decide which tourney will be the “championship.” We'll probably go with a points-based series comprised of Colorado Cup, Emerald City Classic, and Labor Day Invitational with maybe one or two east coast or larger tourneys thrown in there. The new championship will be held sometime in October at Whitaker fields in Austin hosting Open, Women’s, and Master’s divisions. Due to field constraints the Mixed championships will be held in Tulsa, Oklahoma. And you better believe the Cultimate TDs are gonna be all over this one.

Then I thought about my high schoolers and the team I coach. “Oh no, their season is ruined,” I lamented. But I gave myself some time to step back and think about how things would really change. Here at Colorado Youth Ultimate no one’s waiting for permission from the UPA to get things going. We’re already forming this year’s league. Captains and coaches like myself are voting on issues of gender divisions or co-ed play, we’re announcing the existence of our teams, and creating schedules, all without UPA oversight. Aside from this season’s trophy not reading “UPA” just before “Colorado High School Championships”, this coming season is going to run just like the last.

Then I thought of my beloved Hodags and the very fun college series. The UPA’s control of the legitimacy of college rosters is not going to be immediately replaceable, unfortunately. This will be a true test of Spirit of the Game, and a test the players of this sport have not always passed. Can 100% of the players be trusted to be legitimately eligible players? Probably not, and history might asterisk the next few seasons till we develop a framework for college validation again. But Easterns will still go on. Centex will draw teams looking to scrap. The Stanford Invite will keep inviting and High Tide will still send an underage college kid or two to detox from excessive partying on a Savannah St. Patrick’s Day. College players will still find ways to play.

The UPA is a repository of information, but it was put there by the players. There are now differing opinions on what the best way to play the game is that throw into question basic well-known rules or even the tenet of SOTG. And sure, in the vacuum of one real governing body of the sport in the US, people will begin to organize their own version of what the game should look like and seek disciples. But I wager when the sediment settles and people have voted with their membership, the body of governance chosen by the vast majority of players today will play by rules that look pretty gosh darn similar to the ones we’re using today.

The UPA does a lot of work, but there aren’t very many of them. I believe that the grass-roots enterprise of this community would pick up the slack and unify in time to pick the sport up and get it running again. New faces, new boards of directors, maybe even new ideas, but the same level of commitment, tenacity, and love for the game. Under-age players will still drink at tourney parties if they’re committed to it, over-age players will still use craftiness to win, and I’m still going to be on the field, as a player, coach, or fan, watching plastic thrown around.

From the comment section of Match Diesel's blog:

“The biggest difference on this issue between Purple Valley and a UPA event is who feels the impact if something goes wrong. If something tragic happens at Purple Valley and the Williams team gets sued we're talking about one program of maybe 100 guys and girls and a couple of tournaments that are affected. If something tragic happens to an underage player at a UPA event and the UPA gets sued and loses we are talking about serious impact to an organization that hosts almost all of the competetive structure of the sport in the US and serves over 25,000 members.” –Kyle Weisbrod

By now I’m sure you’ve all read on CNN and Fox News that tragically on Saturday night, eight seniors drunk off Schlitz and shots of Goldschlager they acquired at the UPA sponsored Youth Club Championships party commandeered two golf carts used by the UPA officials themselves for quick access to any field at the tournament site. They decided on racing as their fun for the hour but lasted only 3 minutes, when one cart hit a moose during a hairpin curve, clipped the other, and both flipped into an irrigation ditch. The carts having just been refueled for Sunday’s tournament needs, they exploded in a ball of flame and only one of the eight players survived, albeit with burns to 90% of his body.

The response, and litigation, was swift and furious as the sun rose on Sunday. Games began with a moment of silence but it was obvious to everyone the feds and suits would descend on the party soon. Descend they did, and buried Phil Q and the rest of the UPA in enough litigation to ensure it was expunged from history’s books by today, Monday. Even as I write this Will Deaver and Sandie Hammerly are answering questions in front of a congressional panel, and the Blaine Police Dept is pursuing charges against Meredith Tosta, who left the keys to the golf carts in the ignition. Our sport is in deep shit.

Or is it? I know all of you ultimate players out there are in a state of panic thinking ultimate is dead, but hear me out! Stop running around the room like chickens with your heads cut off. We’re fine. Ultimate’s fine. Yes, it’s highly likely that most of the current UPA employees are going to jail because of criminal negligence and the government will dissolve the players’ association, but the sport is far from dead. In fact, it may only get better. Let me explain.

Just a minor point.

Stop talking about "Team X". You know your Team X. In your message boards and team emails you keep talking about how you're going to pound them in the showcase game, how you're taking them down in finals.

"I'm going to shut down John Doe, man!"
"Fuck yeah! I'ma point block the shit out of Joe Smithy, dog. They're going down in finals, fo' sheezy."

Ahem. Cough. Excuse me, I have a question. What if they don't make finals? Will you be prepared for your opponent then?

It may not seem or feel like it, but all this talk about how you gotta beat Team X is just another way of joining the worldwide dick-suck on that team. Your mouth says, "We're gonna trounce 'em in Finals in front of friends and family," because you're psyching yourself and your teammates up. But what you're really telling yourself, deep down in your primitive cerebellum is, "Team X is 100% making finals. Hope we beat them if we get there."

Talking about that shit is inconsistent with the "it's about us" philosophy. I don't care if it's Finals, the showcase game, or pool play and I don't care if it's Bad Larry, Observer Dave's summer league team, or NYNY in their prime, I wanna squash that bug. I wanna play my best and hardest and I wanna do it by sticking to our team strategies and executing everything that's asked of me as flawlessly as possible relying on solid fundamentals. I'm gonna keep it boring.

But if you're telling me how we gotta take down Team X, you're just getting yourself overworked about that game. Relax, think about what our game play should look like all weekend, and put something in your mouth. 'Cuz I don't want to hear it.