Process of Illumination

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.

… 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.

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.

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.

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!