So much has changed lately, but I return to write about a familiar topic. I'm not sure why I keep coming back to it. As I watched The Office series finale and Jim said of the documentary of Dunder Mifflin something like, "You've given me a tape that's allowed me to watch myself grow up. How cool is that?" I thought, SUPER COOL. It's the highlight reel I've often dreamt about. This blog might be mine. There are many highlights and much to consider, but I'm drawn to the sports highlights.
I'm in a new place in a new city. I'm struggling to find my way a bit; just as things were about to get a little ugly, not Atlas Shrugged ugly, but someone smoking at the table next to me ugly, Ultimate leapt back into my life.
I'd been thinking about letting it fade away. I'd been able to play winter league in DC. I missed out as my team went on to be champions, but I'd helped in the regular season. My body had held up. Now, without physical therapy and more limited transportation options, it seemed like maybe Ultimate was something that I could let slide away. I was missing CUA terribly and playing didn't seem like a remedy. A new home could mean new hobbies.
Instead, a friend, a former teammate from DC, who moved out here several years ago announced that I was playing with his team in spring league. "Before someone else scoops you up," he said. I accepted. The scoop became like an embrace. For much of spring the embrace took place in and between snow storms, but it breathed new life into my new life. I'd sit on the couch on Monday nights an hour before I could even reasonably leave for my game and twitch. I'd scurry around the house packing my things. I'd do a little extra stretching and I'd be excited to play.
Move ahead seven weeks through some ups and downs and many very close games. We won some and lost some and I enjoyed them a lot. A whole lot. Highlight of my week, lot. Monday, it was time for our playoff game. Somewhere along the line, the team had realized that I was the youngest player, or at least the youngest male. I share that fact because it surprised me. I don't feel like I could be the youngest. Many times during the spring as I faced off against those ten or more years younger, it showed. The fun, the joy I feel at running around and snagging discs, though, that feels timeless. I felt young, younger, youngest out there.
Monday night, I came to play. I was nervous about my usual aches and I had blisters on both my palms. I wasn't sure how my body was going to do, but I was still ready to go. The game was pretty sloppy and subject to momentum shifts. Our team had trouble on offense and the stack was stagnating.
I may be the youngest on the team, but I'm far from the tallest. This worked in my favor. Instead of drawing the taller defenders, I got to pick on someone my own size when on offense. As the disc moved to one of our handlers with a penchant for hammers, I saw my opening. The disc moved to my side of the field, I was basically in the lane, but there was a clear, though rather long, path to the opposite corner of the end zone. I glanced at the handler with a look that could only mean, "look for the hammer" and I took off running. He didn't disappoint. He reared back and launched a hammer that nearly flew too far, but managed to sneak past the jumping defender and into my hands. It was quite satisfying.
Later, on the wrong end of a momentum shift, a play was called. The play was, get it to Will and huck it to Dave. As the disc moved to Will, I cut a few steps across the field and then took off to the forehand corner. The throw went up and began to slice back toward the middle of the field. I tracked it and once again had good fortune that my hands were especially sticky on this evening. Yes!
Nearly everything was working for me, although one big huck did get off endzone to endzone right through my straight up mark. Still, the cutting had gone well. I handled for a bit and felt like I was moving it well and had some nice up the line cuts, but things down field weren't developing. I was stuck and my dump was covered. The force was forehand and I wanted to get off a backhand dump. The count was at 8 when a second handler made an up the line cut. I didn't have time to adjust to my forehand so I just brought my backhand through and flipped it ahead. It was a fine mixture of creativity and desperation. It's not something that usually works out for me, but it did there.
I got a tipped disc, not quite a handblock, and threw a nice looping inside out for a score, but still we struggled as a team to pull it all together. I had my eye on a callahan, but that requires a fast twitch that seems to be missing from my game. We took half 7-6, but succumbed to the final momentum surge and lost 8-7. I'm proud of the way I played and proud of the way the team kept coming back. I don't understand entirely what it takes and means to win, not in a recreational league and not at higher levels, but I know that playing and battling meant a great deal. Playing well was a thrill and reliving it has carried me through the week.
There are questions about winning, losing, aging, and narcissism swirling inside me, but I think I'd rather day dream about chasing plastic and get ready to go again when summer league starts.