Feelin' Good. It's Wildwood.
This is my fifth trip to the vast swath of sand located between the waves of the Atlantic Ocean and the fried Oreos of the Wildwood boardwalk. I look forward to it every year because even in times of injury two days at the beach with a disc pretty much rules. The layouts are legendary and the good times are close behind. I joined the nucleus of Red Delicious who became Donk-a-phant Dance Party and were now Stillerman's Beach Blokes. Our intended jerseys were British Flags, a nod to Stills who was in Europe and unable to join us on the field. My flag was iron-on, one was drawn, another was the full jersey, others were tankinis, or neck ties or still flying somewhere in the great part of Britain. The word uniform took a turn to the individual last year when we went plaid and seemed to continue on its movement away from uniformity. With only four to a side on the playing field, uniforms really don't matter much.
I'm going to recount my weekend and as I formulate it on the screen I can already see that the action will dominate. If I could do this well, I'd mix the action in with the good feelings of being at the beach with my friends. I don't know that I can. Somehow layouts are easier to talk about than just enjoying time spent in the presence of others. The layouts seemed less frequent this year. It's hard to tell if that was a direct effect of our style of play which seemed to either be pretty accurate or pretty inaccurate or if it was a sign of something else, like exaggerations of past flight. We may never know. Friday night was familiar territory as the car I was in arrived late. I assume only people who leave on Thursday manage to arrive early. We arrived late and found the mansion of a tent already in place. Sweet relief was moments away, but wasn't as AJ, AH, and BH drank and talked well into the night while I curled up thinking violent thoughts and wishing for ear plugs. Finally quiet came and was soon followed by morning. Morning hit us hard and when we stumbled on to the puddle-covered beach we came out slowly. The other team had a step on us and we were dispatched in a quick game.
That loss lead to some fire and we tried to recreate the magic of last year, but taking down a superior-seeming team. We jumped out early on some beautiful throws from MH and hard work and good luck from everyone. One of my personal highlights came in that game, as I put up a loopy outside-in flick to a cutting MH. He was headed to the back corner. It was headed to the back corner. Meanwhile, MH's defender gave chase and the 6 foot 8? inch monster of a player came to help. Yet, the angle of the throw prevented anyone but MH from making the grab. We continued to celebrate. Then, the superior-seeming team clamped down in a flash of superiority and brought us back to earth. Fast. We didn't do much scoring after our 6-2 lead and lost 12-8.
In other years two losses might have put a dark cloud over us, but we seemed to be playing with very little in-game emotion. Instead we played with an almost calm familiarity and the tide began to turn. We won a game and then another really long game and ended our day 2-2. MH had sweet throws. MB had some sweet moments outfoxing his defenders, including one where he let two defenders fight over a disc in the air as they batted it away. He was able to react and recover the ricochet for a score. It wouldn't be the last time he would use smarts to make good things happen. HG was a valuable pick-up and she really worked the disc well and brought thoughtful comments to our sideline. She made us all handlers and she kept us calm and smooth when our edges started to get rough.
In the evening, when other teams went to the beer garden, we were cooking out on the grill. MVP awards to AJ, MD, and MH for some brilliant campground cooking. The kebobs and burgers were the tastiest creations this side of the state park. The relaxing outdoor meal in this on-going incredible weather of summer was the flaming marshmallow (non-cancer causing) in this s'more of a weekend. When our heads hit pillows Saturday night, we fell hard into slumber.
We bounced up on Sunday and still puttered around enough to nearly be late to the fields. The sand conditions had changed quite a bit as they had mostly dried out. SM did her captaining best to get us together and going again. JM was supplying some sweet odd cheers and we got out and rolling. We won our first game and then carried that tired swagger into the second. The puncture wound on my foot started to bug me, so I tried out my shoes. The other team complained about them for various reasons, but they were sweet relief. After the complaints kept coming, I ditched the shoes, got a layout D, had another hand block and we were in position for victory. Recent coaching time has brought me to a more strategic place and I was pushing for a timeout call. In a time game, the timeout is apparently more controversial than I knew as the other team reacted poorly. Discs were slammed down, but we took our time, scored the goal, got the horn, and headed for the bracket championship game.
We've been to championship games or pseudo-championship games the last two years. We were playing for the plastic cup of the third bracket. Again, the usual jitters were gone and we seemed to be ready to continue to play and then go home regardless of the outcome. Rather than time, the structure dictated the best two of three games, the first two to seven, and the third to five if necessary. JM threw down a wicked cheer, "In England, they drink tea in golden cups. Golden cups. GOLDEN CUPS!" Then the Beach Blokes went to work. Lightning-like we were up in the game. We threw some zone. We threw some hucks. Everything seemed to be working. MH put a throw in traffic to AJ. He went up and with two guys helpless below him and snagged a two-pointer. We took the first game 7-2. I felt a moment of jitters, but we discussed what adjustments the other team would probably make. If they made them, it was not evident. In the blink of an eye and on the leading edge of a storm, we took the second game 7-2. The other team seemed flat and stunned.
We jumped and danced and hugged. SM had wanted a cup and it was great to see her with it. AH stopped complaining for a moment and as the rain poured down we could gather our stuff like winners and make the long drive home. We sipped our victory drink from the cup and later continued our celebration over dinner and DQ ice cream. The spoils tasted sweet*.
*It's a funny thing, winning. We keep score and I do want to emerge victorious, but more and more getting to play is such a joy. To play with people that I care about means even more. We may not spend time practicing or working together much, but to share the field and to have those moments where we count on one another and then for it to work out in more wins than losses, that's something. That's one of the reasons I keep playing.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Texas, revisited
In June, when I was tubing in Texas, I met some new people that were fun to be around. In the olden days, they would have been filed away in my memory bank only to be withdrawn with a smile and an “Oh yeah,” at some later date far in the future. I am the low-key Kool-Aid man of memories.
The future is here and the olden days are toast. Facebook and blogs have kept me in touch with these fun people. They knew I was moving. I knew they were waterskiing. We shared surface details, the kind that gets bandied about on the Internet, which led to an exchange. Now just about a month after our first meeting, these new people were quite gracious to me when I visited their area.
I was in a conference center on a work trip clear across town from these Texans. Still, they came and picked me up from this island of a conference center, perhaps not fully realizing how far they had to go. They whisked me away to Fort Worth.
Our first stop was a water park. This wasn’t a slides-and-wave-pool kind of place, but a sit-and-think park with water as its central design theme. It was neat and modern and somewhat unexpected in a hot Texas town. It was quite visually interesting. Each section had a sort of theme- one was set below street level in a dimly lit recess with a long shallow well-lit pool of still water. The walls had a light coating of falling water and were lined with trees. There was space to sit and to relax in this quiet area. Another section had 40 fountains all spraying like oversized sprinkler heads and creating what the sign called “a single plane.”
The most interesting section to me was shaped like the inside of an upside-down pyramid, ice cream cone-like, without the rounded edges. Water was cascading down the sides and there were unevenly spaced and shaped rectangle steps spiraling down to a pool below. When I stopped to look up after taking a few steps down, it looked a bit like I was in a waterfall or some rapids but no water was splashing on me. I went further down, trying hard not to slip and fall, and then made my way back up again.
From the park, we made our way to the Fort Worth I had expected. The shops were closed, but even window shopping I could see a vast array of boots and cowboy hats in the stockyard section of town. I can imagine the thrill of the rodeo and still taste lamb fries.
In June, when I was tubing in Texas, I met some new people that were fun to be around. In the olden days, they would have been filed away in my memory bank only to be withdrawn with a smile and an “Oh yeah,” at some later date far in the future. I am the low-key Kool-Aid man of memories.
The future is here and the olden days are toast. Facebook and blogs have kept me in touch with these fun people. They knew I was moving. I knew they were waterskiing. We shared surface details, the kind that gets bandied about on the Internet, which led to an exchange. Now just about a month after our first meeting, these new people were quite gracious to me when I visited their area.
I was in a conference center on a work trip clear across town from these Texans. Still, they came and picked me up from this island of a conference center, perhaps not fully realizing how far they had to go. They whisked me away to Fort Worth.
Our first stop was a water park. This wasn’t a slides-and-wave-pool kind of place, but a sit-and-think park with water as its central design theme. It was neat and modern and somewhat unexpected in a hot Texas town. It was quite visually interesting. Each section had a sort of theme- one was set below street level in a dimly lit recess with a long shallow well-lit pool of still water. The walls had a light coating of falling water and were lined with trees. There was space to sit and to relax in this quiet area. Another section had 40 fountains all spraying like oversized sprinkler heads and creating what the sign called “a single plane.”
The most interesting section to me was shaped like the inside of an upside-down pyramid, ice cream cone-like, without the rounded edges. Water was cascading down the sides and there were unevenly spaced and shaped rectangle steps spiraling down to a pool below. When I stopped to look up after taking a few steps down, it looked a bit like I was in a waterfall or some rapids but no water was splashing on me. I went further down, trying hard not to slip and fall, and then made my way back up again.
From the park, we made our way to the Fort Worth I had expected. The shops were closed, but even window shopping I could see a vast array of boots and cowboy hats in the stockyard section of town. I can imagine the thrill of the rodeo and still taste lamb fries.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Be very, very quiet
I've been doing a little hunting lately. I haven't killed anything, but I think there's a place to rent that we've got our eye on. House hunting is more complicated than I remember. I haven't done it in six years and I've never done it in a group larger than two, but I still wasn't prepared.
To be fair, much of the hunting was done by my potential flatmates, or really just one who managed to be a whirlwind of house hunting prowess. She was organized, on top of things, and kept us moving along through multiple options. It was a pretty awesome train to be on. I did keep an eye out and I found a few potential places, but we didn't end up looking at them.
It didn't matter. We looked at several. Some were too small. One was too large. One was oddly divided and had a bathroom as far away from everything else as possible without having an outhouse. One seemed like it might work. It had 3 bathrooms and that seems advantageous to everyone but my internal cleaning lady. It had enough space for stuff, like my two bikes and my naugahyde furntiture and me.
When I first started looking, I somehow forgot that four opinions might be different than one. I forgot that it wasn't just my stuff that had to fit, but everyone's. I only partially realized that we would be talking about four commutes and four ideas about what a home should look and feel like. This experience has been good for my thinking. I trust it will not be the last if this all works out.
I don't want to jinx it by talking about it here and I usually don't blog about things in the future, but this time I'm making an exception. I'm not sure how we'll respond if someone else has applied first or if the landlord rejects us. It will be hard to bounce back and head out to look again. It's not just time consuming to hunt for a place to live, I think it requires a good-sized emotional investment. To plan on a space, to picture a life in that space is a challenging thing for me.
I'm really glad I'm only renting at this point. I can't imagine the committment of buying. People who buy must be brave. Me? I'm just shooting from the hip, an emotional outdoorsman looking for the next shack.
I've been doing a little hunting lately. I haven't killed anything, but I think there's a place to rent that we've got our eye on. House hunting is more complicated than I remember. I haven't done it in six years and I've never done it in a group larger than two, but I still wasn't prepared.
To be fair, much of the hunting was done by my potential flatmates, or really just one who managed to be a whirlwind of house hunting prowess. She was organized, on top of things, and kept us moving along through multiple options. It was a pretty awesome train to be on. I did keep an eye out and I found a few potential places, but we didn't end up looking at them.
It didn't matter. We looked at several. Some were too small. One was too large. One was oddly divided and had a bathroom as far away from everything else as possible without having an outhouse. One seemed like it might work. It had 3 bathrooms and that seems advantageous to everyone but my internal cleaning lady. It had enough space for stuff, like my two bikes and my naugahyde furntiture and me.
When I first started looking, I somehow forgot that four opinions might be different than one. I forgot that it wasn't just my stuff that had to fit, but everyone's. I only partially realized that we would be talking about four commutes and four ideas about what a home should look and feel like. This experience has been good for my thinking. I trust it will not be the last if this all works out.
I don't want to jinx it by talking about it here and I usually don't blog about things in the future, but this time I'm making an exception. I'm not sure how we'll respond if someone else has applied first or if the landlord rejects us. It will be hard to bounce back and head out to look again. It's not just time consuming to hunt for a place to live, I think it requires a good-sized emotional investment. To plan on a space, to picture a life in that space is a challenging thing for me.
I'm really glad I'm only renting at this point. I can't imagine the committment of buying. People who buy must be brave. Me? I'm just shooting from the hip, an emotional outdoorsman looking for the next shack.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Beat it
I’ve been meaning to write something about Michael Jackson since his passing on June 25. I didn’t cry when I found out that he’d died. I was surprised, but I didn’t watch enough news to be sick of the coverage. I wasn’t part of the Twitterstorm that took them offline. I’ve been sort of put off by the guy over the last few years, but I have a few fuzzy memories associated with him and it seems like time to share them.
When Thriller came out, my neighbors bought the record and invited us to listen. My dad and I joined Jesse and Ben and their father at their house in the front room. Someone, probably Ben’s dad, pulled the record out from the cover. I can’t quite make out the artwork in my memory without assistance, but I remember the black edges and white in the center. I don’t remember hearing the album then or anything else about that moment except that I don’t think I have ever been somewhere for the specific purpose of hearing a new record at any other point in my life.
I had a copy of Thriller on tape, probably made from my neighbor’s record. I nearly wore that tape out. It lived in my Walkman for a while. I think the title track scared me a little bit, but “Beat It” made me want to be tough, “Billie Jean” made me want to sing and perhaps act a little cavalier toward the opposite sex, and “The Girl is Mine” made me want to argue about girls with my friends.
I kept listening to Thriller in my Walkman even after we moved away. When I returned, Michael soon followed with his hit “Bad”. I liked it, but in some jaded 10-year old way I was more taken by Weird Al Yankovic’s parody “Fat” by then. Michael Jackson and I began to part ways, but never entirely. It’s quite possible that old tape might still be in the drawer in my cracked walkman today. I'll have to check.
I’ve been meaning to write something about Michael Jackson since his passing on June 25. I didn’t cry when I found out that he’d died. I was surprised, but I didn’t watch enough news to be sick of the coverage. I wasn’t part of the Twitterstorm that took them offline. I’ve been sort of put off by the guy over the last few years, but I have a few fuzzy memories associated with him and it seems like time to share them.
When Thriller came out, my neighbors bought the record and invited us to listen. My dad and I joined Jesse and Ben and their father at their house in the front room. Someone, probably Ben’s dad, pulled the record out from the cover. I can’t quite make out the artwork in my memory without assistance, but I remember the black edges and white in the center. I don’t remember hearing the album then or anything else about that moment except that I don’t think I have ever been somewhere for the specific purpose of hearing a new record at any other point in my life.
I had a copy of Thriller on tape, probably made from my neighbor’s record. I nearly wore that tape out. It lived in my Walkman for a while. I think the title track scared me a little bit, but “Beat It” made me want to be tough, “Billie Jean” made me want to sing and perhaps act a little cavalier toward the opposite sex, and “The Girl is Mine” made me want to argue about girls with my friends.
I kept listening to Thriller in my Walkman even after we moved away. When I returned, Michael soon followed with his hit “Bad”. I liked it, but in some jaded 10-year old way I was more taken by Weird Al Yankovic’s parody “Fat” by then. Michael Jackson and I began to part ways, but never entirely. It’s quite possible that old tape might still be in the drawer in my cracked walkman today. I'll have to check.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
A slow release of work frustration
Does bureaucracy ever decrease if the players remain the same? Or does that require new players in the game? It seems to me that my work has found an increasing need to go through layers. Sometimes it’s to save money, which costs me in time and frustration. Sometimes it’s to save someone else time, which means that it takes me longer and I can’t get any support.
Some of my criticism comes from the automation that gets introduced. I know having certain systems automated must reduce bureaucracy, save time and money, but the one I'm thinking of fails in my eyes. What was once done on paper with relative ease is now done on systems that are so far from user-friendly that they might be user-mean. If I’m able to navigate the meanness, I usually end up having to do something twice because I missed a step or failed to code something correctly. This is my problem, I recognize, but it’s not just my problem when everyone I know is doing the same thing.
Give me some step by step instructions. I might follow them. That very well could be the rub.
Poor automation does its best, but unfortunately even automation still involves people. People are automation's downfall.
Does bureaucracy ever decrease if the players remain the same? Or does that require new players in the game? It seems to me that my work has found an increasing need to go through layers. Sometimes it’s to save money, which costs me in time and frustration. Sometimes it’s to save someone else time, which means that it takes me longer and I can’t get any support.
Some of my criticism comes from the automation that gets introduced. I know having certain systems automated must reduce bureaucracy, save time and money, but the one I'm thinking of fails in my eyes. What was once done on paper with relative ease is now done on systems that are so far from user-friendly that they might be user-mean. If I’m able to navigate the meanness, I usually end up having to do something twice because I missed a step or failed to code something correctly. This is my problem, I recognize, but it’s not just my problem when everyone I know is doing the same thing.
Give me some step by step instructions. I might follow them. That very well could be the rub.
Poor automation does its best, but unfortunately even automation still involves people. People are automation's downfall.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
This lifting stuff might be working in more detail
The last three weeks or so, I've had a pretty steady diet of exercise. I've been going five or six days a week, usually with biking and running four or five of those days and lifting two of the days. I've had some times where I was dragging a bit. There were even a few nights where I felt like I had entered the land of fatigue, recognizable by an inability to sleep despite general heaviness. Yet, there were also times where I felt like my body was stronger and more resilient. A few weeks ago I raced in that four-miler and I felt like I was able to count on some different muscle groups. Yesterday, I put myself to the yearly mile test.
I'd actually passed the test in April, but in ways it's a new year and I wanted to go well under the five minute mark. I set my sites on 4:48. That would be an improvement of nearly ten seconds over April's run. The heats were structured differently than I remember. There was a 4:50 to 5:20 heat and a 4:50 and under heat. What happened to 5:00 and under? My initial instinct was to enter the under 4:50 heat. That was my goal after all. As I warmed up, doubt crept in. Would I be better served at the back of the pack or at the front? Was I really going to be able to improve by ten seconds? I nearly gave in and switched heats, but Clare helped fortify my confidence. Besides, I told myself, someone has to get last; it might as well be going after it and missing by a few seconds. It's not like I'd be in anybody's way.
The pep talk in my head was chock full of strategy and low on pep. I knew that at least ten runners in the race were looking to post times at or below 4:35. I recognized a couple guys that I've seen run 4:25 in the last few years. The race happening in front was not my race. Chasing the leaders would be chasing failure at this point. I called on my experience from a few weeks ago and my experience from many miles and reminded myself of this strategy repeatedly as I approached the line. Getting excited wouldn't help me, I needed to stay focused on my goal and run 4 laps each one at about 72 seconds.
The heat before us went off and a group finished with times of about 4:47. Another wave of doubt started to wash over me, but I silenced it with a strider and felt the power in my legs. With my head quieted, I took my place at the back of the starting pack. The night was almost perfect. The sun was behind clouds and the heat and humidity have gone missing from DC's summer menu. The breeze was slight. GO! I started the race in last on the heels of a man in blue shorts. A large rumbling pack sped around the corner and I held my position in last trying to gauge my pace. I knew a 72 second lap would feel pretty comfortable, but with the race going on it was feeling slow. I took the first lap in 70 seconds. I stayed behind blue, flashing a little to the outside as I could see a small gap opening up between us and the trailing group. Blue held me off and I tucked back in. We came across in 2:22. I was slightly ahead of pace, but wanted to dip no further.
The third lap takes its toll. It's where the runners who got out too fast for their liking start to fade. Blue and I surged. We seemed to have the same race plan. We picked off a small pack and kept going. I don't know my lap three time, but it had to be pretty close to the others, probably right around 70 seconds.
The bell was ringing for the last lap. I heard the cheers of my friends as I went by. Blue continued his surge. I gave chase, but he opened up a small gap on me. We passed another. I tried to make a move on the back turn, but as far as I can recollect nothing happened. I held off somebody down the home stretch, but I did it with an almost imperceptible kick. I arrived and found my time to be comfortably below my goal. I had run 4:41.
I don't think I've run that fast since the middle of college. Looks like I'm going to keep lifting.
The last three weeks or so, I've had a pretty steady diet of exercise. I've been going five or six days a week, usually with biking and running four or five of those days and lifting two of the days. I've had some times where I was dragging a bit. There were even a few nights where I felt like I had entered the land of fatigue, recognizable by an inability to sleep despite general heaviness. Yet, there were also times where I felt like my body was stronger and more resilient. A few weeks ago I raced in that four-miler and I felt like I was able to count on some different muscle groups. Yesterday, I put myself to the yearly mile test.
I'd actually passed the test in April, but in ways it's a new year and I wanted to go well under the five minute mark. I set my sites on 4:48. That would be an improvement of nearly ten seconds over April's run. The heats were structured differently than I remember. There was a 4:50 to 5:20 heat and a 4:50 and under heat. What happened to 5:00 and under? My initial instinct was to enter the under 4:50 heat. That was my goal after all. As I warmed up, doubt crept in. Would I be better served at the back of the pack or at the front? Was I really going to be able to improve by ten seconds? I nearly gave in and switched heats, but Clare helped fortify my confidence. Besides, I told myself, someone has to get last; it might as well be going after it and missing by a few seconds. It's not like I'd be in anybody's way.
The pep talk in my head was chock full of strategy and low on pep. I knew that at least ten runners in the race were looking to post times at or below 4:35. I recognized a couple guys that I've seen run 4:25 in the last few years. The race happening in front was not my race. Chasing the leaders would be chasing failure at this point. I called on my experience from a few weeks ago and my experience from many miles and reminded myself of this strategy repeatedly as I approached the line. Getting excited wouldn't help me, I needed to stay focused on my goal and run 4 laps each one at about 72 seconds.
The heat before us went off and a group finished with times of about 4:47. Another wave of doubt started to wash over me, but I silenced it with a strider and felt the power in my legs. With my head quieted, I took my place at the back of the starting pack. The night was almost perfect. The sun was behind clouds and the heat and humidity have gone missing from DC's summer menu. The breeze was slight. GO! I started the race in last on the heels of a man in blue shorts. A large rumbling pack sped around the corner and I held my position in last trying to gauge my pace. I knew a 72 second lap would feel pretty comfortable, but with the race going on it was feeling slow. I took the first lap in 70 seconds. I stayed behind blue, flashing a little to the outside as I could see a small gap opening up between us and the trailing group. Blue held me off and I tucked back in. We came across in 2:22. I was slightly ahead of pace, but wanted to dip no further.
The third lap takes its toll. It's where the runners who got out too fast for their liking start to fade. Blue and I surged. We seemed to have the same race plan. We picked off a small pack and kept going. I don't know my lap three time, but it had to be pretty close to the others, probably right around 70 seconds.
The bell was ringing for the last lap. I heard the cheers of my friends as I went by. Blue continued his surge. I gave chase, but he opened up a small gap on me. We passed another. I tried to make a move on the back turn, but as far as I can recollect nothing happened. I held off somebody down the home stretch, but I did it with an almost imperceptible kick. I arrived and found my time to be comfortably below my goal. I had run 4:41.
I don't think I've run that fast since the middle of college. Looks like I'm going to keep lifting.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Thinking about guilt
First, came the Callahan. I didn’t expect it to be thrown into me, so I was a little surprised when it hit my hand. I didn’t really react. Then, at game point with the teams playing newly introduced zone, I found my way behind the deep-deep. A big throw went up, floated, stayed up, and as the deep-deep began tracking the disc, I set up my jump and made the game-winning grab as we bumped into one another slightly. These plays made me feel guilty.
I didn’t feel guilty shutting down my man dancing for the dump. I didn’t feel guilty when my throws connected with receivers. I didn’t feel relieved when I got out-jumped three times last week or out run over the rocks and ruts of the field, or when a handler dropped a high release backhand over my shoulder. So, I’m writing to understand why guilt appeared with these other plays. Both of the plays did occur when the score wasn’t close. That seems to be a factor. I don’t want the other team’s players to feel bad, not in this league, not when the focus is on learning and having fun. However, we keep score, so someone does win and someone does lose. I do want to win and so does my team. These plays are more like punctuation. They are final statements where the eyes are on me. Everybody isn’t watching shut-down defense. Even a good throw hangs in the air and waits for someone else to catch it.
Maybe that’s all there is to it. Final statements in not-close games aren’t where I want to be. I prefer that my statements get made in closer competition.
I was just accused of over-thinking things.
First, came the Callahan. I didn’t expect it to be thrown into me, so I was a little surprised when it hit my hand. I didn’t really react. Then, at game point with the teams playing newly introduced zone, I found my way behind the deep-deep. A big throw went up, floated, stayed up, and as the deep-deep began tracking the disc, I set up my jump and made the game-winning grab as we bumped into one another slightly. These plays made me feel guilty.
I didn’t feel guilty shutting down my man dancing for the dump. I didn’t feel guilty when my throws connected with receivers. I didn’t feel relieved when I got out-jumped three times last week or out run over the rocks and ruts of the field, or when a handler dropped a high release backhand over my shoulder. So, I’m writing to understand why guilt appeared with these other plays. Both of the plays did occur when the score wasn’t close. That seems to be a factor. I don’t want the other team’s players to feel bad, not in this league, not when the focus is on learning and having fun. However, we keep score, so someone does win and someone does lose. I do want to win and so does my team. These plays are more like punctuation. They are final statements where the eyes are on me. Everybody isn’t watching shut-down defense. Even a good throw hangs in the air and waits for someone else to catch it.
Maybe that’s all there is to it. Final statements in not-close games aren’t where I want to be. I prefer that my statements get made in closer competition.
I was just accused of over-thinking things.
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