Movies 2008
Netflix entered my life in force this year...

1. Enchanted
2. D.E.B.S
3. The Thomas Crown Affair (1968)
4. Chariots of Fire
5. Berkley in the Sixties
6. North by Northwest
7. Casa de los Babys
8. The Spirit of the Marathon
9. Secretary
10. 27 dresses
11. Atonement
12. Definitely, Maybe
13. LA Haine
14. I think I love my wife
15. Brokeback Mountain
16. The Pursuit of Happyness
17. The Ten
18. Charlie Bartlett
19. The Simpsons Movie
20. Persopolis
21. The Prestige
22. The Darjeeling Limited
23. Dan in Real Life
24. Becoming Jane
25. Alvin and the Chipmunks
26. The Hours
27. American Flyers
28. Roger Dodger
29. I'm a Cyborg, but that's ok
30. Smart People
31. Swing Time
32. Southland Tales
33. Lars and the Real Girl
34. Iron Man
35. Raging Bull
36. No Blood for Oil
37. P.S. I love you
38. Forgetting Sarah Marshall
39. Into the Wild
40. Music Within
41. Sex & The City
42. The Hustler
43. The Holiday
44. The Greatest Game Ever Played
45. American Teen
46. The Other Boleyn Girl
47. Better Off Dead
48. Saint Ralph
49. Cash Back
50. Pistol: Birth of a Legend
51. August Rush
52. 4 months, 3 weeks, 2 days
53. 21
54. Without Limits
55. Son of Rambow
56. Prefontaine (review)
57. The Duchess
58. Burn After Reading
59. School for Scoundrels
60. Body of Lies
61. Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
62. Against the Ropes
63. Good Luck Chuck
64. Be Kind, Rewind
65. Rachel Getting Married
66. The Aviator
67. The Departed
68. Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny
69. Slumdog Millionaire
70. Charlie Wilson's War
71. Seven Pounds
72. Hancock
73. Harold and Maude
74. Opportunity Knocks (review)

I would say Atonement and Lars and The Real Girl were my favorite movies this year. I'm a Cyborg, but that's ok was memorable for sure. Spirit of the Marathon gets a special mention because it was part of and helped recall a great experience.

The Midas remote control

You've seen Click and read up on your Greek mythology, but if you'll indulge me for just one moment, I'll tell you about the time my remote control was pure gold. Literally. Except, not literally at all.

Last night, I found myself stumbling around the digital air waves. (What are these now? They aren't air waves, are they? Where do we stumble when we're flipping channels; why it's not even a flip anymore, maybe a blip...) In a New York minute, I can never remember if those are fast or slow, but I want the fast ones here, I went from having nothing to watch and very little meaning in my Monday evening to having three sporting events that I cared passionately about. When I say passionately here, I mean the sort of passion that one might feel for his third favorite pair of pants- that's the passion I'm talking about. First, I found Georgetown upsetting Connecticut in some Big East basketball. I don't know when I became a Georgetown fan exactly, but I think it happened. It might be because they are good and nearby, some sort of beacon of awesome or something. Between channel blipping, I found that G-town was able to hold off Connecticut for the victory. Yay! recently adopted team. Then, through the telepathy of ESPN and the rippling facebook status updates, I found that Missouri was battling the vastly inferior except when they weren't which was like all night Northwestern team. Missouri escaped with a victory. All right. That actually concluded after the Washington Wizards went on their first winning streak of the season. These 2 recent victories bring their record to 6-23. Needless to say, that's been fun to cheer for.

All of this through the magic of my remote control. And I want to get rid of cable...

Live a life of a modern person with a classy watch
There is much to say and someone else is probably saying it.

I'd had a low level Christmas buzz going since about December 9, so I figured that I wouldn't have the energy to really take that up many notches. Why, I'd even won the door/cubicle decorating contest edging out 8 others for the high honor. I was right about my energy, but had a good Christmas anyway. I enjoyed a planned and a surprise visit with some FARCers early on and then really dug into the family stuff. My niece didn't think much of the magnificent beard. She seemed to be avoiding most men and it took her all week to warm up to me. She did get around to petting my beard and saying "woof," which is exactly the hollow sort of victory that it sounds. With hair in my mouth, and the reaction of my niece, I was having some beard doubts until I stumbled onto a site celebrating facial hair as "nature's bib" and then discovered the magic of Beard Science. Never fear, beard fans, my facial hair resolve is renewed.

The weather, like my beard, was up to some other good tricks this vacation. I went for a run in 6 degree weather. There were beard-cicles, frozen mustache pops, and for a moment or two I thought my eyes might freeze. Days later, I was running in shorts and a t-shirt at some 60 degrees warmer. To prove the weather was crazy, the Midwest threw in snow, a thunderstorm, and both sleet and rain for good measure.

I'm back home now with the vague sense that something important needs to be done. I'll have to save any life-altering decisions until after the soup.

A Sunday status race

David is wishing for more time between social life and alarm.
David is cold.
David is preparing for an abbreviated warm-up.
David is waiting for the 2-letter command.
David is going.
David is going out slowly.
David is in the top 40.
David is letting the leaders go.
David is feeling ok.
David is moving up slowly.
David is feeling neither good nor bad.
David is without his watch.
David is racing without enthusiasm.
David is focused forward.
David is still seeing the leaders.
David is in the top 20.
David is done with more than a mile.
David is joined by blue hat.
David is moving up with blue hat.
David is lost in his stride.
David is feeling ok.
David is passing.
David is being passed by blue hat.
David is still looking up.
David is in the top 15.
David is done with 3 miles.
David is not interested in losing to a girl in pink.
David is sorry for being sexist.
David is not so sorry that he slows down.
David is closing on another group.
David is not losing the blue hat.
David is not gaining much on pink.
David is a fan of front door fans.
David is in a new group.
David is exchanging places with blue hat.
David is joined by blue hat as we give chase.
David is less than a mile from the finish.
David is making his move.
David is regretting making his move.
David is slowing down.
David is being passed by blue hat.
David is being passed by a big guy.
David is struggling.
David is removing his gloves.
David is considering chucking them.
David is passing a big guy.
David is being passed by a big guy.
David is no longer interested in this pursuit.
David is done.
David is recognizing his surroundings.
David is not done.
David is kicking.
David is passing a big guy.
David is closing on the end.
David is 29:43 for 8k.
David is pained, tired, pleased, frustrated, and out of breath.
David is eighth.
David is an age group champion.
David is being greeted by the runner-up.
David is enjoying the company of his competition.

David is not sure this is the most enjoyable way to communicate.
David is glad he tried.
David is crediting Daimon for the inspiration.

Miracle in transit

Friday night a cosmic event occurred and I was there to witness it. Traveling from a party sometime around 2 AM, I prepared for the long Metro ride home. Across town, out late, I knew I was destined to log some serious waiting minutes, complete with long platform-hugging times for my train and my transfer. Instead, with the full moon looming thirty percent larger, I descended the escalator to find my train arriving. At my transfer, my wait time was less than a minute. I was at home and in bed before Santa could even make a pass at mom. Also, it wasn't Christmas, but I was getting into the spirits, just like my favorite North Pole rapper- E double G Nawg.

Hittin' the egg nog

Yesterday I began constructing my entry into the office door-decorating contest. My vision includes a window lit by twinkling lights, potentially with the shadows of Dickensian carolers outside. The piece-de-Christmas, though, will be a small tape recorder stuck to the door and a sign that says "Press play for carols."

On the tiny tape of the tape player will be the recorded voices of carol singers. The hitch in my plan is that I have not come across any singers. I considered some Internet stealing, but wanted something closer to the genuine experience. At least it needed to be as genuine as tiny tape can be. Two of my coworkers politely declined my entreaties to form an a capella trio. Alone and buzzing from the energy of an idea, I decided to take matters into my own larynx. I hesitated, considering that I might sound better with bathroom acoustics or muzzled, but decided to press on by pressing record. Standing in my office, reading song lyrics from my computer, I belted out an off key, "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?"

As I was finishing up my fourth mangled carol, I could sense some energy in the air, a cheeriness, a feeling that curled the ends of my mouth skyward, and made me fight off a chuckle. It wasn't from me; I've mangled many a song before. It was something else, not Christmas spirit exactly, more like two coworkers laughing at me.

The ups and downs of XC
I can't tell how much of my running is mental. Somewhere, yesterday morning the usual jitters disappeared for reasons that I can't explain. It made me a little nervous, but not in the right way. To add to the mental/emotional roller coaster I stumbled into a negative cloud thanks to the Internet. I may not know how much running is mental, but I knew I didn't want to race under a dark cloud. I spent my few spare moments seeking out something positive to counteract the cloud. I turned to music to cheer me up. Even though I knew I was doing it, it seemed to work.

I set out without nerve or cloud, with friends on the starting line, through the woods. Learning from Tuesday's two-mile, I held back. Working into single file as we ran on a path beneath and between leaveless trees down toward an unfrozen creek and lake, I worked my way into about fifth place. Openings appeared where I could have moved to fourth or third or up further, but I was reigning myself in, trying not to move too soon. Single file continued for quite some time. I worried about rocks and tree roots twisting my ankles. I grew momentarily annoyed when an s-curve in the trail slowed our pace, but still I held back. As we crossed a path above the lake that may have been a reservoir, space opened up around us. I moved onto the heels of the leaders, but didn't pass. I was waiting for at least the 3k mark, the halfway point. We took the turn, but I was not ready to move immediately. A little further down the trail, I saw my opening. I can't remember what the opening was. It may have been the slightly wider trail, or it may have been just a half-step of pace, or it may just have been that I was looking to open things up a little more. Whatever it was, I moved to the front. I don't like races to come down to wild sprints at the end. To win, I like to have a lead. I tried all the tricks I could think of as we moved back through where we'd come. I crested hills hard and made turns strong, hoping that those behind me would lose sight of me for a moment and be demoralized with the ground they'd suddenly lost.

The sounds in my ears were breath and footsteps, but most of the noise came from inside. The personal battle was waging as I crossed the three mile mark. Soon after, I mentally lamented the 6k race, wishing that I'd already broken the proverbial tape in a 5k. At the previously annoying, s-curve, I slalomed through with jerky hips and powerful steps. I bounded onto bridges and hoped for the finish to appear. It did not. The battle wasn't over and the trail turned upward. I don't recall bounding down so far in the beginning, but here I was climbing up. Hills at the end of races, seem to be a club hallmark and yet I'm usually unprepared. I pressed up the hill, but most of the pressing seemed to be taking place against my chest. My heart and lungs were burning as I fought on. I didn't want to look back, but I sensed my competitors gaining. Halfway up the hill, I thought to myself, if I can clear this hill, I can win. I cleared the hill, and found more hill. With another push of painful steps, I crested that next part of the hill and saw the finish line. Finally. I may have sprinted, but there wasn't much left in the tank. Chest heaving, I crossed the line and waited just a few seconds before being followed into the chute. Victory tasted of cold air.

My new shoes now sit on my bedroom floor undefeated. They are the only shoes I've ever owned that have held that honor. They are considering retirement, but more than likely they will be back to better that (probably inaccurate) 6k time of 26:27.

There's a whole other world out there. They call it morning.

For much of the past three months, I've been waking up early twice a week to make some Ultimate. It's been tiring at times, but it's also been very rewarding. Playing and thinking Ultimate before work is confusing to my system, but freeing in many ways. It frees my evenings. It frees that part of my soul that likes to see the sun rise on a crisp fall morning. It frees my alarm from the snooze button. There have been a number of good practices and some not so good practices along the way. I may be biased by the passage of time, or the recent break in the action, but one of the best practices of all took place on Tuesday.

With only a slight chill in the air, we took to the track to run two miles. There were no moans, only a small group of Ultimate players willing, if not ready, to run. I started out too fast, but wound my way around to a time of 10:56. Fortunately the others ignored my efforts. They all run pretty well, some even much better than I expected. It was exhilarating to put down those miles before many went for coffee. Then, to add caramel flavoring to the day, we chased the disc around in a silly game of boot that brought out tired smiles. Running and disc chasing are great ways to start the day.

Another step toward grownupsville

On the outskirts of adulthood, that residential district filled with chamois shirts and flower print blouses, there's a small town where if you want something done, you do it yourself. As I was unconsciously sifting through my memory banks, I came to the realization that there are certain tastes and smells that I associate with the holidays. One of those tastes done to near perfection by women in my family is the taste of sweet potatoes. I've had the recipe for ages, but I've never had the will or the gumption to take on my memory. This year, with Thanksgiving looming and no alternative sweet potatoes in sight, I decided to take action.

Twice I made the sweet potatoes, once misunderstanding the directions "peeled and cooked" and once coming up short in the magic sauce department, and twice I lived to smile about it. They may have lacked the texture and the look of the family tradition, but at least in part they packed the flavor. With a mixture of pride and sadness, I brought the sweet potatoes to two different Thanksgiving day meals.

"There's no better than best."

I think I'm about to rant. I don't know if I can control my words very well as I recount this event. I apologize. I'm hoping that by getting it out in this space, I can get this off my mind.

Ultimate is a self-officiated sport whose rules state that we put fair play above winning. I am paraphrasing. As the game gets more competitive and the stakes get higher, this becomes increasingly difficult. For years, I have clung to these tenets of our game because I believe that the people who play Ultimate can take on this challenge and do at least as good a job as a referee. At the highest levels of the game, observers have been introduced. They act as self-officiation help. In the event that players can't agree, the observer can make his/her impartial ruling. I've resisted this as well. Today, a call was made in a game that had no observers; it deeply weakened my anti-observer bias.

The play: A huck that went directly up the line was caught in the end zone barely in-bounds or just out-of-bounds. One player, probably 25 to 30 yards away from the catch called the receiver out of bounds. An argument ensued. Now, not only do Ultimate players get to argue about the call, but we argue about who had the best perspective. This individual on the other team, was not only not particularly close to the play, but he was not on the sideline, meaning that his call would have been extremely difficult since he had neither the angle nor the proximity to make a good call. When the thrower argued that his perspective down the line was better, since he could at least see the two cones that make up the front and back of the end zone, the caller responded, "There's no better than best." While the sentiment was and is a fantastic and hilarious defense of the "best" perspective, it was also ridiculous.

Both teams dug in their heels, but eventually a re-do ensued. I think it ended badly for the (full disclosure) team I'm partial to, but I hope that the boy with the "best" perspective thinks about his calls in the future.

Preposterous.

Bring on the observers. Cue my head bowing dejectedly.

Update: I've realized that I have focused a lot of energy and frustration on this moment and all of it does not belong there. I think what I really need to take out of today, is that odd winds will blow, strange calls will be made, and I have to keep my head and help the team keep their heads on straight. There are plenty of excuses, but we've got to find ways to seize and keep momentum at the crucial moments.

A whole new world

We practiced in the gym today. It felt a little like PE class, but mostly it felt like another world. It was like playing basketball without some gravity or playing baseball with a softball. It was playing Ultimate without wind. The disc just seemed to cut through the air better, and it usually does pretty well.

Then to really throw a wrench in things we ran some seven versus zero. It may seem lopsided, but it just might have worked. One of many, many challenging things to try to teach Ultimate players is the way the traditional vertical stack offense should look. The flow drills, the scrimmages, the diagrams, and the discussions haven't quite seemed to get us there. Time will tell if seven versus zero did the trick, but I thought I saw some light bulbs coming on. Here's hoping.

Another great drill we ran to get throwers thinking about where they were throwing was a come-to drill with a requirement to catch the disc with the outside hand. After almost three full months of an ongoing mantra of catching with two hands, we switched it up. The drill did a number of important things- it took people out of their comfort zone, it forced concentration, and best of all it looked good. I don't know how much being indoors contributed to the feeling, but I was glowing with pride at the amount of success we had with the drill. I keep thinking about September when everything was being dropped, two hands or not. We've come a long way.

There's one last tournament this semester and I hope we've started on an upward trajectory.

The antithesis of the last post?
I threw the disc so much on Tuesday that my arm hurts. I thought I could throw, but on a lined field with a slight wind at me, I found out that it takes a ton of work for me to throw 35 yards (insert air quotes here) accurately (close air quotes) and repeatedly, especially with my backhand. All of a sudden, I want to be able to throw. Maybe it stems from the realization that I felt old last weekend. I felt like the college and high school kids were exploding on their first step and I felt tired when they continued to run in all kinds of directions. So maybe I know that I need to round out my game.

While my game grows more spherical, let me point to some personal moments of enjoyment from the last weekend. I felt like I had a relatively quiet few games. I couldn't find my groove and I did have a sense of being out of place. I made some bad throws and some less than stellar decisions. I did get a big D early on the mark that I managed to catch off my deflection and toss in for a score. Finally, somewhere late in the day, I did manage to settle in and do a bit of damage. I got up to grab an errant disc, called a timeout and then faced some serious stomach butterflies before throwing an easy score. Both were caught on tape, and I'm disappointed to say that it felt like I jumped a lot higher than it looks on film. Maybe some things aren't worth seeing again and again. Another moment caught on film that was much bigger in my head was a little flip pass that then led to a winning score. I caught the disc and looked up field, desperately I wanted to throw deep for a score, but saw no one to throw to. A struggle roiled inside of me, until my teammate ran by, I flipped it to him and he threw a nice flick for the win. On film, this took about a second, in my head the struggle lasted much longer. One in-game moment not caught on film that I'm particularly proud of was a dump pass. I had committed to my dump. The stall count was getting high and my handler wasn't open. As stall 8 rang out, I gave a good fake that sent the defender racing after nothing, at 9 I tossed the disc to my now wide open handler to keep it moving.

I still find it easier to discuss my on field adventures than my off field ones, but I will mention the half-time speech in the final fifth place game. After trading points for the first half and being up 7-5, I nicely demanded that we not let the other team back in the game. I brandished the new universal symbol for finish them off (a closed fist rubbing out an open palm) and then watched in awe as we went up 12-5. We finally closed the game at 13-7, but it was a good run and not a bad day. The room for improvement remains more like a convention center, which is good because it keeps me busy.

Tough like jerky: A lesson in perspective

For the first time in a long time, I tried to run home from work. I had my backpack on, which is always a bit discouraging, but I didn't let that stop me. It was a little cold, but I didn't let that stop me. I was cruising up the hill, dodging the foot traffic for about four miles. Then I got tired and I got cold. I fought with myself for a little while, but responded to the siren song when a bus rolled by. I hopped on and found a seat.

Lost in slightly dejected thought, a woman called out to me. I turned my head and gave her a confused look. If I knew her, I had no idea where we could have met. My brain was clicking away, when she called again. "I saw you way back there. You ran far."

"I wore out," I replied as a slight smile crept into my words.

"You did good," she said. "That's a long way."

"It is," I said. I meant, "Thank you."

The sticker

I'm days late, I know.

As my finger hovered over the screen near the box for Obama/Biden, I felt a tingle, a surge, the full electric charge of history pulsing through my body. The red "X" silenced the sensation. By the time I passed through the door of the elementary school turned polling place I was over it. Yes, I'm excited to have a leader that I might actually feel like following, but no matter where I voted, I'm from Missouri. I'm waiting for Obama to Show Me.

College and lunches: the staple of my travels

It starts with lunch. At the far end of the Detroit terminal I found Gourmet PB&J. With so many choices in peanut butter complements, I went with the classic- grape jelly, wheat bread. It was decent, limited by the vat taste of too much PB and too much J in large containers. It was a bit overpriced, as the sandwich ran almost $4. It wasn't the answer, but I liked the idea and I don't really know the question.

Detroit was a layover; I had other places to be. Flying in over suburbs and farmland, descending, but still too high above to make out much detail, I pictured the various paths my own life could take and considered the pieces of some of those lives that I already had. My navel-gazing was interrupted by a field with a farewell message to Favre. I saw no such signs for me.

In Madison, I stumbled on to the home of the Badgers almost as soon as I'd left my lake view hotel room. Caught up in my own travel cliche, I wandered around campus. The architecture reminded me of my alma mater. The students reminded me of myself, only younger, and with redder sweatshirts. I was already enjoying the fall colors mixed with academia when I found a small game of Ultimate on a grassy area. I smiled as I considered graduate school before walking on into town. The university campus and the downtown "State street" area merge almost seamlessly. Searching for dinner and the sights, I walked from campus to capitol and then turned around and walked back. Joined by coworkers, my journey took me a block from where I started at State Street Brats. The college crowd was absent on a Tuesday, but jovial nights of drinking and jawing clung to the neon signs and bench seating. We ordered at the bar- brats and beer. It was "flip night" and after correctly calling "heads", I enjoyed a local brew from New Glarus. During the week I'd work my way down from dark to lighter, perhaps easing myself out of Madison through the prism of beer.

The beer and brats were delicious, but my growing crush on Madison solidified when even a cold drizzle couldn't stop me from my morning run. The crew teams were out on the lake and I could spy on them through the trees off the path I'd discovered. I passed a few runners and bikers in the rain, but nothing like I would find the next afternoon in the sunshine. With the sun out, the isthmus sprouted athleticism like dandelions. Runners and bikers filled all manner of path, not so crowded that it was uncomfortable, just enough to be engaging. As if the city were trying to reel me in, I found myself running by the practice field of the Badger marching band. Forget iPods, nothing rocks a run like a full marching band tooting and drumming away.
It's funny how well things go, when things are going well. As I ate my macaroni and Wisconsin cheese with a side of bologna and sipped my Spotted Cow, I tried to picture myself in the lofts of downtown Madison, Wisconsin.

Did I mention my hotel rented cross-country skis?

Graceful victory

It's been a long time since I've been on the winning end of a blowout. It was a pleasant 15-4 league game victory. It probably would have been less satisfying if I hadn't played an hour of Ultimate prior. It was nice to feel in synch, nice to get a D on command, nice to get help from the sidelines, and nice to be playing on a Fall day. Yet, the nicest things of all took place off the field in a hug, in a car bomb, and in a Mongolian BBQ. I play the game for a lot of reasons, but today community came out on top, in a blowout. Glug, glug, glug.

Tarheel country

Big Ed's at the City Market was not exactly my intended lunch time destination. I got off a plane and set off with my daypack full, running shoes poking out of the water bottle carriers. I wore my green safari/fatigue/sport coat and my red cap. The sun south of here was hotter than I expected. The bus ride longer. Then, I didn't factor in the extra loop through the airport. Public transit isn't the answer other places. I arrived downtown, wandered to the city market, and stumbled onto Big Ed's. Corn bread, country ham, food was the way to get acclimated.

I had the afternoon to myself. Completely. No one but me knew where I was. Even I didn't know where I was going. I was carless, bikeless, and now not so keen on the bus. I walked. I walked through historic Oakwood where the porches of my dreams framed house after house. I longed for sweet tea and quiet company, but only kept the latter. I wandered on the outskirts of a cemetery, past the dead of Raleigh, on my way back to the capitol. I had loose plan, but I didn't know the scale of my map or when I'd left it. My watch had broken and so I told time in foot pains and hunger pangs. I toured the history museum, closed according to the information booth lady, where I found a 1920s pharmacy sans soda jerk and the North Carolina Sports Hall of Fame sans Air Jordan. Still thirsty, still curious, I walked on to an avenue speckled with bars not ready to open. Not knowing quite how I would get to my hotel for the night, I continued to walk. On foot, I found my bus route into town and stopped at LocoPop. It was all I could expect from a shop just outside the campus of NC State. Part ice cream shop that served only popsicles and part art gallery that catered only to elementary art school classes, I chewed through a mango-papaya pop and rested.

Renewed by the popsicle, I carried on through campus, but no longer felt quite so at home as I have in years past. As I neared the highway, I began to except that my nomadic, public transit fueled dreams were coming to a close. Stumbling on a pay phone in between the dilapidated Pizza America and the crusty car repair joint, I called for a cab. It took some leafing through an attached phone book, but I was pleased to note that the entire world had not passed me by. After my quiet afternoon as a big city adventurer, I had to wonder if in fact I was actually gaining.

Ultimate dominates headlines

There are few things that I've been thinking about more than Ultimate lately, so if I do manage to get something up in this space, it's probably going to be Ultimate-related. I will give out a fine anecdote that includes Sir Mix-a-lot (reference) before I return to the subject at hand.

I was in line for dinner last night and the side dish was red beans and rice. My mind was churning, but I couldn't quite come up with my thoughts. I turned to my friend and said, "I'm trying to think of that Sir Mix-a-lot lyric." I trailed off, hummed a few bars to myself, "something red beans and rice din't miss her." The girl in line in front of me turned around and exclaimed, "I was thinking the same thing." I ordered a plate full, but they missed her.

Back to Ultimate- I should try to use this space to work out the challenges of teaching new players and experienced players the game at the same time. Or I should write about my feelings of inferiority when it comes to verbalizing my thoughts on the game in a practice or huddle session. Instead, I'm going the selfish route and focusing on last weekend's personal highlights. There weren't a lot. The team was out-numbered and comparatively inexperienced and as a result we struggled. I quietly went about my business and didn't see a lot of action. I handled more than I usually do and while I didn't find this as stressful as I expected it to be, it really confirmed my preference to cut. I'm ok with running around more and touching the disc less. On defense, I played ok, but I often found my layout attempts to be a tad late and a tad short. I was talked out of my first highlight when I let a player with worse perspective determine that I was out of bounds on a scoring catch. At this point, almost a week later, I'm not sure if I slid in, caught the disc, and then clipped the line or if I slid in, clipped the line, and caught the disc. Still, I'm frustrated by this mainly because I know the exact moment when he won his case. He said something like, "I mean, you can have it if you want." and shrugged his shoulders. I didn't want his pity point. I wanted it outright. The team would get one, and only one, later against one of the best teams I've ever faced, but mine was gone and at least in part because of my struggle to think clearly in a conflict.

My two favorite moments of the day were 1. on a outside in backhand that curled just into the path of my teammate for a wicked layout score. and 2. hollering at the rookie to keep him cutting back and forth and back and forth, until he finally ended up with his first score.

Sunday, we played one of the local Masters teams and it appeared we had finally met our match. Still, they jumped out to an early lead. We came back, but neither team was playing that well. Mistakes were being made all over the place. They had one guy who seemed to think I wasn't there and he threw it within a step of me on at least two occasions. I grabbed those. I had a nice battle going with one of their other players. On one point he was covering me and had a bead on the disc on my in cut. He knocked it away and it fluttered in the air. Crawling on the ground, I lunged for it, stretched out my arm through the grass, and smiled gratefully as the disc landed in my hand. Later, on that point or one soon after, I was covering my man and I had a bead on his in cut. Jazzed from the earlier play or tired of running, or still feeling the Wildwood vibes of my plaid skirt, I launched myself into the air and caught a layout D. Impressive, except for the fact that the offender was probably 10 feet away. The other good moment in the game was in a zone. The handlers swung the disc, got it to the rookie on the sideline, I raced over to get a short pass and then turned and sent a flat backhand down the line for-ev-er. Our team speedster tracked it down with a ridiculous layout grab in the back corner of the endzone. Sweet. None of this was enough for us to notch a win on the weekend.

Still, losing Ultimate is better than no Ultimate. Lots better.

Proud of the Internet

Social networking is swell, online journals are neat, maps, movies, and tv at my fingertips is magical, but the site that makes me proud to know the Internet is The Huddle. It's Ultimate-related and it poses questions to some of the games big names and minds. Those minds then answer the question and the knowledge just drips off the page. It's amazing and exactly the sort of collaboration that makes everybody better. Their most recent installment is on the UPA Board of Directors election. If I could find a presidential election site that did this well, maybe I'd feel better about that vote too.

I'm awed and so appreciative of this gift.

The strangeness of September

It's a little scary to re-enter the blog world. I dipped my little toe in the other day and it doesn't appear that I lost any skin. I thought I'd try again before September ended. This month didn't go the way I thought it would, though, I don't really think much about how a month will go. I don't usually have the energy to live in chunks that large. I entered the month with a renewed interest in writing and finding some voice and then like a storm front blowing through, that interest was gone. It was usurped by Ultimate. In spare moments, I think about trying to revive that interest. The word play suits me, but I think I better understand the scores of folks who make a hobby out of intending to write.

At the end of August and the beginning of September, I accepted a volunteer coaching position. It's similar to the position that I've had over the last few years helping out at a local university, but this year the captains and I have formalized it and are trying to take the steps to move the team forward. We've come up with a curriculum that takes us roughly through November and we've run practices with more intent and planning. It's exciting, but I'm discovering that I'm more a creature of habit than I realized. Changes to the schedule or personnel have thrown me for a loop. Disappointing dips in attendance have boiled my blood in ways I'm not proud to admit. It's a learning experience and it's hard work. I'm trying to master a number of fears and challenges at once. It's a constant juggling act and it seems like someone keeps adding items to juggle. It has taken years to even get to a point where I'm ready to think about juggling. There's so much that I could talk about right here, that I think I'll wait and see if I can't use some of October to draw together my coaching experiences and my desire for word play.

In other strange September doings, I injured my knee last week. I stayed off it as best I could all week (which did nothing to improve a recent mood prone to sour spells) and then bought a knee brace. I strapped on the knee brace Saturday before playing Ultimate in a tournament. The knee brace cut the back of my knee, but otherwise seemed effective. After 5 games of Ultimate, some without the knee brace, my knee now feels better. I'm trying to convince myself that my dreams of Ultimate curing all my ills has finally come to pass. There are some personal Ultimate anecdotes from the weekend that also need a home here, but those too will have to wait.

Here are some lyrics to say it better while I prepare for October.

Don't mind me, it's just September....
....so afraid that what you'll find is all you deserve...

Perhaps September has reluctantly agreed to serve as an outline for future blog posts.