A month without Ultimate

I went to practice today. I didn't play. I tried to be supportive, helpful, and useful. I even wrote those three words on my hand to remind myself of my goals. In some degree, I think I managed to be that. What I didn't count on, but probably should have was how much I'd want to get out there and play.

Watching the disc fly through the air, sets my muscles to twitching. I want to run and jump and pluck discs out of the air. I went after a few because I couldn't help myself. Unfortunately, those plucks only served to remind me that I'm not yet healed and I may have a ways to go.

I've spent the month fairly well. Exercise has slipped a bit, but my reading has increased considerably and I've spent some time on other pursuits- biking, canoeing, even a bit of banjo picking. What I want though, is a return to Ultimate. I've got a week before Wildwood about 6 weeks before Sectionals. I'll probably go easy on the beach, but I need some good healing to happen in the next 6 weeks.

Please body, let me play.

Dear driver,

I'm sorry about our exchange today. I think we both said some things in a tone we didn't mean. The words were ok, like when I said, "Please go ahead, you don't have a stop sign," except without the "Please", oh, or the "go ahead." Or when you said, "Your hand was out, like you were turning." You were correct, I was signaling a left turn, but I didn't want to make it directly in front of your moving vehicle.

I think we were both trying to respectfully share the road and avoid collision. For this, I am grateful. I thought about you as I rode away and I'm thinking about you now. I thought about the venom in our words and wondered if I should turn around and say, "We were right. We were both right."

I hope you'll accept this letter instead and not run me over next time either.

Hugs and kisses,
Dave

Philadelphia quicksand or How I learned to watch the clock and stop worrying about the place

It doesn't get better. It only gets worse. -Matt


We arrived just before 10 PM, Bull, Murray, Matt, and I, taking Philly and a bit of silly, in the dark of night. Our directions weren't clear, and yet, when we stopped and got of of the car we found ourselves just outside of the campsite. At that point, it was more city park, more make-out spot, more odd place to be after dark than anything else. Just on the other side of the building where the indomitable Rocky climbed the steps in triumph, we set up Paul's house-sized tent by headlamp. We went to bed in one of only three tents on the site and woke to a growing tent city.

The race started at 10 AM. Our relay team of 5 had shrunk to 4, with me nursing an injury. I'd hoped that rest, acupuncture, doctor, stretching, miracles might lead to recovery, but as I tested myself soon after sunrise, I knew it was not to be. I readied my support.

As we talked to other runners in various iterations of the 20in24 event, we realized that flexibility abounded. Some runners were running 24 hours. Some part of relays running 4 laps each of the 8.4 mile course, some part of relays running only 1 lap each. We had 10 laps, 84 miles, but we could divide those laps any way we wanted. Recognizing that I wanted to do more than support and that the challenge of 10 laps by 3 individuals would be a big one, I offered to walk a lap. Maybe I could run a bit if things went well. Regardless, I could provide Paul and Matt a rest before they embarked on clearing 20 or 30 miles for the day and I could contribute more to the team than just support. It felt right and I hoped it would work.

As we circled museum drive looking for parking, Paul and Matt hatched a plan and negotiated who would run 4 laps and who would be left with only 3. Then it was 10 AM.

Paul kicked off the running portion of the adventure for the team known as Fast Fraction Five. I started my watch. Marie, Matt and I then made our way back to the tent and the shade, glorious shade, to wait for our team to be announced over the loudspeaker. We conversed and snacked and laid the groundwork for an enjoyable Saturday cycle. When Paul reached two miles from the finish of the loop, a PA announcer would interrupt the blaring music to let us know. At least that was the intent. With about 50 minutes gone by, I began to expect the announcement that didn't come. We soon headed back to the start line, just in case. As we arrived, so did Paul. We'd botched the first hand off, but only by a few moments as Paul came in right around 61 minutes. Matt bounded into action and left for lap 2.

Paul got a drink and his first wet towel and we returned to the tent and shade. Paul gave us an economics lesson while we waited for Matt. Team names like Gingerbread men, Dirty Birds 1 (and 2), B'more Charmers were read over the loudspeaker. Concepts like debt and deficit and Nutella were discussed. The latter less for economical reasons and more for snack reasons. Matt arrived early, but the announcers were on it. So, the team waited together for his arrival at the chute as he cruised in having looped in about 55 or 56 minutes.

Exact times seemed too much for me to track, but I busied myself with paying close attention to pace and making sure we were ready when the runner on the course came in. Although race day comfort is a personal thing, I also found myself trying as much as I could to be involved in the off-the-course comfort of the team. If all went well, I wouldn't walk until nearly 6 PM, so my day would be largely spent in support of FFF. I wanted to embrace that and being in the company of friends. At the early stages, it was easy. Marie was off and clicking through her first lap. Paul and Matt discussed their first loops and I tended to snacking, listening, and writing the early portions of this retelling. About 68 minutes later, off went Paul for his second lap.

We'd just passed the 3 hour mark and were sending out Paul for the fourth leg. The race was off to a good start. Marie toyed with idea of napping and brushed off compliments of her speed. We waited longer than expected for Paul. I thought I'd accounted for some delay, but I was nervous that we'd again missed the announcement on the loudspeaker. My nervousness was slightly misplaced, as Paul had some runner's trouble on his second loop. He still came in at 64 minutes, but he was a little pale and quite a bit rattled. We got him cooled off inside for a bit and calmed down a few notches while Matt made his second loop. The body was ok and there was time to rest.

The PA announcements came in spurts, interrupting the likes of Beyonce or Phil Collins in turn. Got the runs, On your left, Blank Romans, Molasses were all making their way through the course. We began to hear about the ultra-marathoners over the PA as well. A subdued celebration with light applause echoed for the scratch on the surface for those brave souls taking on the course on their own, lap after lap after lap.

Matt was back in 58 minutes. He handed off the yellow and sweat-covered wristband of joy to Marie for her second and final lap. Most relay teams were now in or nearing the first round of their runners. Our brave team was taking on their second lap already. The vibe in the camp was upbeat. People were happy to be done with a loop, proud of their accomplishment, and only tired in little ways. FFF still had a big day ahead, but Paul's swagger had started to return, and Matt looked well. If I looked closely though, I could see they both had a hollower look of fatigue that other campers would soon know. I knew and they knew they could go on, but we also knew they had a lot still to ask of their bodies.

While Marie was out, Matt hatched a revision to the plan. Paul readily agreed. We'd push me to leg 9, so that way Matt would be fresher if he was needed in all or in part for leg 10. I didn't mind, another 70 minutes of waiting to walk didn't change my day much at all. So it would be.

Marie came through in about 76 minutes, pushing us near the 6 hour and 22 minute mark for the day. The three who were acting as five, held us in fifth through 6 laps in the 10 lap division, as Paul took out again. After Marie cooled off and settled a bit, her first question was about Paul. Moments before Marie had finished her leg, and several minutes after he'd wearily declared the next loop would be a slow one, the color and confidence had returned to his face. Paul would knock out his third leg just fine. We could sense it.

He did while Marie basked in being done for the day. Matt knocked out a fine last leg of his own while I started to develop a few jitters. I had a two hour walk ahead of me. I knew I could walk 8.4 miles and I was fairly certain I could do it without much pain, but could I do it "fast" and more than that did I want to? The questions swirled in my head and the snack food rolled a bit in my stomach.

As I stood waiting for the hand off, I eyed young fast runners jealously. I told Paul that I was shooting for 2 hours to give him some sense of when to expect me. Matt came in, wished me well, and handed me the sweat covered wrist band. I stuffed it in my pocket feeling more disgust than joy and waddled off. As the perspiration of the sweat band seeped through my pocket, I turned the corner around the art museum, and picked off two others, one resting ultra-marathoner and another walker like me. As I searched for my identity as a walker, I was fortunate not to be passed by anyone until nearly 3/4 of a mile. Soon after the runners came by, but it didn't hurt to be passed. This was my pace and passing happened. It just did.

If we believe the mile markers, and I'm told we didn't, my first mile was in 14:30. At times, I glanced at the scenery. At times, I focused on my breathing and tried to manage or improve my nagging injuries. I found times where I was lost in the speed of my breathing and my walking, times where the world melted away just like it does when I run. I tried not to look at my watch much, knowing that I'd be out on the course for a good long time. I thought I'd found a groove and skipped right through mile two, but it wasn't true. Mile two came in another slow 14 minutes. The relative speed of the miles would get better, though.

I passed walking runners and runners passed me. Some exchanged positive words and others slipped by silently. I lost and found focus. I grabbed water or Gatorade when I passed by the relief stands. My steps weren't the steps of a runner, but my time and place were still measured by getting to the next mile. This sense of purpose, this fight for focus, these are reasons I run and the reasons that walking on this day were ok. I had time to consider my pain points and I had time to try to make adjustments to correct that pain. I had time to see some scenery. As I made the turn nearing halfway, the sun and the hills worked together to cast shadows on the bridges and the river, but not on the cemetery on the hill. The cemetery was bathed in evening light with shadowed bridges below. None of my teammates saw the cemetery at all, even though the course passed right by it. I didn't see it all, sometimes lost in my own thoughts, and never allowing myself to lollygag, even if my walk slowed.

The team Nice View From Behind passed me by and I gave a cheer. Then I began to notice others in our division go by. I struggled to keep some within striking distance for our last runner, but the difference between walk and run was vast. Four miles became five and the time to go seemed almost pleasant and manageable. Aided by a salty pretzel, I passed and was passed and passed and was passed again by one of the ultra-marathoners. Being in a battle, I on my 8 mile walk and he on his 100 mile run, seemed strange, almost wrong, and yet still a little motivating.

As we neared mile 6, I was passed by a division competitor who then slowed to a walk. I passed him, but soon he passed me again. He didn't last long though and by mile 7, my walk was once again closing in on him. They'd radioed in that my finish was coming, probably still 26 minutes away, but still coming and I knew that FFF would be waiting.

I wanted to close the gap on my competition, but I had no other walking gear. I kept my man in site for some time. Then as the signs on the road read 1/2 a mile to go, my eyes started to water. Desperately, I wanted to gallop. I wanted to close out the race with a wicked kick. I wanted to support my team with speed. I wanted to do what I do well. I wanted to run, not walk. I wanted to test my guts and my mettle against those other runners around me. I wanted to prove that I was runner, to hear my lungs heave and my heart beat and to feel that exhausted satisfaction of the finish line. I wiped my eyes and steadied my walk. I was a walker today. Paul would close the gap. Despite what my head and my heart and my lungs told me, my side, my groin, my back had been telling me for weeks not to run. I'd gone 8 miles not running. There was no reason not to go .4 miles more as a walker.

In about 1 hour and 53 minutes, I'd covered the course and handed the now nearly dry wristband of joy to Paul for FFF's final leg. Darkness was moments away and the full moon was rising.

The team had packed the tent in my absence. My legs did have more soreness than I expected. I wobbled just a touch as we packed up a little more and waited to celebrate with Paul.

He came in 11 hours and 25 minutes after we'd begun. He'd had to walk a bit in the last leg, but still finished strong. He grabbed more cold wet towels and we celebrated with rest and dance moves. Marie, Matt, Paul and I relished our collective success, our very different days, and our shared joy. We relished it as we snacked and talked our way, sometimes delirious way, home.

Maybe the body and the legs didn't get better as the day wore on, but it did get better. There's a reward in trying and a reward in finishing and there's a reward in doing it together. Thanks, team.



*Matt did clarify that he only meant in the context of getting more tired in a long distance race and not in general.

Canoe come out and play?

My hands pulled dry bags from the van and I plopped the rubbery pillow-like masses on the driveway. My younger sister walked by carrying a sleeping bag into the garage. I saw her out of the corner of my eye and I felt the urge to check the answering machine for messages from our friends. I turned my eyes up the street and saw my nieces, two growing girls with a third on the way.

The answering machine is ten years gone, our friends have moved up and out of town; like my sister, they are married and have children of their own. The family van is long gone, replaced by my parent's Sportsmobile for rolling in retirement.

Canoeing with my family makes me feel like a kid. I'm getting better at hoisting the canoes on cars and tying knots to hold them down, but that's still the purview of my dad. It's not something I do much more than yearly. Sometimes that seems like a problem, but like most of my problems, that all seems to flow downstream when we finally get to the campground near the river. Water gun warfare returned in force this year as even more big and small children joined the manufactured fracas.

My niece Madeline, now 4, had stocked up on small-person-friendly artillery and threatened a watery downfall for her Uncle Dave. As we headed out again this year on the Niangua river with a smaller group of about 20, water came down from the sky. The rain slowed the first volley as raincoats and ponchos were donned. The rain lasted longer than predicted, but it was a soft cool rain in the July summer and I found it refreshing.

With Clare working and my uncle unable to join us on the river, I had the unique pleasure of paddling the old Grumman with my aunt. We knocked off two days and 14.4 miles with relative ease. The water was down from last year, and the few rapids left seemed all but harmless. My aunt's been canoeing longer than I have and her experience in the bow was noticeable. She'd know to draw before I needed to ask and we'd glide past fallen branches and protruding rocks. She did brace more than expected, but that seemed to provide her some comfort. We mostly stayed out of trouble when we weren't causing it.

Aunt Julie and I launched a number of in-boat attacks on small children and her grown children and their significant others. In some of these we came out wetter than planned. When not being drenched by a spray of water, I couldn't help but smile to see my cousins both running their boats calmly on the Niangua. When did we all have time to age? It must have been between canoe trips, because I found myself asking the same question at the campsite, between s'mores.

The tents have mostly been replaced by Sportsmobiles and some of the tents that did remain had blowing fans plugged in to electrical outlets. This is not the roughing it, the conservation, that I remember. Comfort has come to outweigh those other values. It's hard to get too upset about those choices though, especially when family, community, and enjoying the outdoors on and off the river remain.

Reason for optimism

I just leaned against the handlebars of my bike at a traffic light. The pain that's taken flight since Saturday, the pain that's sent me in a downward spiral of 2007, the pain that's not even that bad except that it prevents me from going to play Ultimate, is in a different spot.

There's no guarantee that this means I'm ok. There's no way for me to know if I can work this pain out and get back to playing after a week of vacation. The only thing I know is that for a moment, I have hope. I'm going to try and work this out. I'm going to hope that I can get back to playing. I'm going to eschew pain and emerge victorious.

Tough day for psoas, decent day for Ultimate

I didn't take time to work out much this past week and I may be paying the price. As my team, Casual Encounters, warmed up yesterday for our one day tournament in Catonsville, I could feel my psoas start to act out. I'd warmed up extra and I thought I was managing it, but yesterday it struck back early. When caught nursing my side with a pained look on my face, I confessed that I may not be quite as ready to play as usual. I could feel pain in my groin. Last time groin pain led to an inability to change direction. It's tough to compete in Ultimate without being able to change direction.

I worked on it on the sidelines as the first game started. I decided it was ok to play and got in a few points. For some reason, and I don't think it was my psoas, our offensive cutters were in the way of one another, me included. It was chaos and fairly frustrating. We still seemed to be hanging around in the game, but we never really challenged the other team. I think I managed to catch a deep score and float a score to Fox, but I don't remember much else beyond the cutting turmoil. My psoas didn't get worse.

Our second game was against the one seed and likely the sectional favorite- Grey. They are athletic and have good throws. I was told I would be mostly sitting in hopes that we could mount a stronger attack in the third game. We were getting beat soundly, but we were fighting hard. The offense started to clean up a bit and everyone was competing. I did manage to get in a few points and make some things happen. I took one cut deep and got a floaty huck from Bruce Wayne. My defender made up the ground on me and a help defender caught up as well. As the three of us ran to position ourselves for the slicing disc to come down, I'm told that my defender uncoiled and began to leap after the disc, but instead he slammed into his teammate. I took a few steps away from the pile and pulled down the score. I played some solid defense against a guy who was running all over the field. He didn't get the disc, but my teammates took delight in telling me that his approach was what it felt like covering me. I just said something to the effect of, "That's exhausting."

My play of the day that wasn't quite, happened late in this game on an in cut across the field. With my defender's hand almost on mine and some contact, I snagged a disc across my body and high with a step in bounds before being slammed to the ground. I popped up, to the surprise of my defender who thought he got the D, came back in bounds, pivoted and got fouled, had a zero stall count when I saw Gersh going deep. From the sideline I put up a beauty of a huck that went about 55 yards just out of bounds and with a slight outside in that managed to come back in bounds and just glanced off Gersh's outstretched hand. It's one of my best throws in recent memory.

I believe that was one of only two of my turnovers. The other was a short flick that floated a bit high on me and bounced off Heather's hand. I played less, but I still hope this is a start of a new trend.

The third game was another that we seemed in, but just weren't. Our defensive lines aren't scoring. We're just trading unforced (and sometimes forced) errors. I remember one point where it took us three chances to get into the end zone. We started to see some better handler movement in the third game. I had a decent offensive performance. I got one huck off the brick. My defender was in front of me and there was no help back, so I just took off. The offense seemed to be flowing better and there were a few points that we just marched right up the field. The only problem was that Hyperbole did the same to us. I did get at least one other deep grab. I was wide open and the disc was trailing away. I tracked it down in the back corner of the end zone and left the field fired up saying, "Come on! We can do what we want!" I really think that team is beatable, but we've got more to work on before we get there.

The fourth game was against a tired Dirty People team. Zone defenses were exchanged, but we eventually seemed to wear them down to get a win! By the end it felt like we were running them ragged. It was nice to get a win. That's only my second with the team. I'm looking forward to more. Hope my psoas agrees.

From home

"Work is what you do, not where you go." Isn't that how the argument for teleworking goes? I'm hesitant to mix my office life with my home life. I go by different names at home and at the office. What if I don't recognize myself?

This week as the offices on my floor were swapped like trading cards, although I'm fairly certain nobody snagged two offices for a McGwire rookie card, I ended up at the desk in my living room doing work.

I pushed back the piles of home, the various notebooks and paperweights that frame my iMac, and I created space to function. Work felt more like art in that moment. I needed surface area to think. The trappings of work, the various grants and manuals filled the recently cleared section of wood, and spilled out into the room. I worked in relative quiet and calm. I worked with focus and purpose.

For a while.

I checked email. I wandered to the fridge. I listened to the songs on iTunes that have been silent since '08. The distractions of home were more complete. Even the Internet at home offered escape unlike the Internet at the office. The guilt free breaks were real and left me ready to return to the projects at hand in full force.

Without the distraction of getting to the office or getting home, I found that I was driven. This was a blessing and a curse yesterday. It meant that I didn't want to stop, I wanted to finish. Only practice could shake me from the work I was doing. My desire to complete was only usurped by a desire to compete, or at least the desire to show up to my previous commitment.

It may have been the new environment that helped propel me. A little off balance, I became more alert and more productive. The jolt may have been short-lived as the pull of the weekend started to wear on me today. I'm off balance in other ways too. My bladder is full from all the water I'm drinking, but my desire to exercise has been minimal. It's as if pitched from my routine, I'd rather gather moss than roll stones.

The moral of this story seems to be about the ebb and flow of productivity and distraction, about the advantages of both the habitual rhythms of life and the kick of falling off that rolling sine wave.

Catch the windy spirit and they'll badger you to return

I like to start a vacation with a wedding. There's nothing like lifelong commitment to make a man appreciate a week off from work. This wasn't just any wedding either. This was one of those love stories for the ages. This was an engagement documented heavily on youtube and celebrated for all time or at least a week.

Excuse me, I'll take a break from the wedding to get the cynical fly out of my love stew.

I was in Chicago with C. We were crashing with friends S and A in their new and beautiful home on the Chicago river. The weather wasn't very cooperative and they were entertaining other friends that weekend as well. It rained. There was ping-pong, some bird-feeding, a scrumptious little brunch, and a lot of scrawled notes and missed connections. If it hadn't been a year or two since we'd seen this crowd, I could have sworn that we'd seen them last week and would see them again in a month. Time would play fast and loose like that all week. We bounced in and out of old friends lives. Heck we'd cleared three FARCers before we even got to the wedding.

Speaking of the wedding, I'm back and ready to appreciate the event fully. In case you're counting, and I was, I think this puts me at 25 weddings attended since high school. I'm a fan of weddings and as we approached the interesting venue Salvage One and saw the groomsmen in the street I got excited. (I actually got excited when I put on my tie, but come on, how vain is that?)

Not to worry, the groomsmen weren't playing in traffic. It was a photo shoot. Salvage One is an architectural salvage store. A more accomplished writer with a better memory could describe the venue better, but the foosball table with wooden players was in the back, the giant chandeliers with film strip piping were near the makeshift bar, and the pews were for sale. The wedding itself was a quick event, as my sophomore year roommate wed his high school girlfriend in this the later round of their love. They'd worked hard to get to this point and they knocked out some nice vows, kissed, and sent us upstairs to eat and party.

The reception was gorgeous. The event planner now wife and the art director now husband had their personality seeping throughout and their personalities clearly have class. At least until you view the photo booth pictures. Their DJ was dancing to her own beats. It made me consider a new career while I danced along. The bride and grooms' friends had moves. As we age, I think more people are realizing that they can dance. I went for quantity, because if you can't out-move them, out-move them, if you know what I'm saying. You don't? Well, man the groom's grandma had dance moves like you would not believe. It's a good thing somebody pulled her to the bar before she started planking.

Five FARCers down and Chicago's in the rear view mirror. Madison, WI, we're coming for you. First, we stopped for dinner in a town that seemed to be a series of streets plopped down on a field. We'd visit C's Wisconsin study abroad pals and find her sport, cornhole. And on to Madison.

Madison was so quiet because that very day the Wisconsin college Ultimate team lost in the National finals. C assured me that wasn't the case. Maybe school was out. Maybe the protesters at the state capitol were tired. Maybe no one could believe that we were staying in a hotel. Don't worry, it was only for one night. Madison was sixth street for us. We seemed lost without a tour guide. Even when we enlisted the help of another FARCer, Jenn, over drinks, we just couldn't seem to find our footing as we rambled on B-cycles not unlike the Capital Bikeshare in DC, away from the lake and onto the trail that looked not unlike MKT. Madison to us may have been a collection of places we'd already been.

It may have been the siren call of Fond du Lac that had us distracted. M, K, and their children left the DC area about a year ago and now finally we got to see them again. Their children were bundles of energy. They probably had half the energy in Fond du Lac. I believe M called it a suburb without a big city. I'm pretty sure it had a Wal-Mart. We spent two quiet, other than the sometimes screaming kids, days in Fond du Lac and it reminded me why I love those cats. Bouncing through the playgrounds and chatting at the kitchen table I could have been 18 or 80 and I think I'd still like being around M and K. Those kids are pretty awesome too. They wanted to be tossed, turned, twirled as much as energy would allow. I tried walking lunges and squats, but their turn as dumbbells only seemed to tire me out and leave them wanting more. We even got in a little disc throwing from 5 feet apart. Fond du lac should definitely be closer.

It is closer to Milwaukee and our next stop on the trip. I slept while C drove. This was a vacation pattern that seemed to work heavily in my favor. Another pattern heavily in my favor, was that C let me pick a lot of our activities. We toured the Pabst mansion (that Pabst, of Pabst brewing, did you know he had a mansion? And some seriously interesting germanic tastes? Whoa. Also, servants quarters. Get some.) We had lunch at the Milwaukee market in the historic third ward where the advertising museum has been closed for several years, but the building is for sale in case you're interested. We then made our way to N and J's home for another bout of guest rooming. N and J were excellent hosts and let us bask in the glory of Clifford the Big Red Dog and Elmo. There daughter E may have factored heavily in those television choices.

When Clifford and Elmo were off, we spent our daylight at the Milwaukee art museum, the Lakefront brewery tour, and hanging out in the yard as N checked her veggies. We spent an evening at a gallery viewing too. I can't remember what Alice Cooper said about Milwaukee in Wayne's World, but I can almost guarantee he was right. And then the vacation got real. How do I know? The hosts got a baby sitter to go out on Friday night. I don't know what the going rate for baby sitters is, but I know that N and J got their money's worth. Or I got their money's worth. Or somebody got some money's worth. Look over there- bratwurst. Yum.

10 FARCers in all. Only 217 Facebook friends to go.

Driftwood

Vacation ended on Saturday, saving airline bucks, but also allowing me to play Ultimate on Sunday. I woke up at 5:30 AM, grabbed a zipcar and drove. Seat dancing was in full swing to keep me awake and driving. Traffic was really light, but it was raining, I was heading to the beach on the day most folks head home and it was really early.

The team seemed happy to see me. It was a changed team from Bell Crack. With about 15 people missing from the final roster, the team was just a third of its previous size. There was plenty of playing time to go around. I felt great. While everyone was dragging around their tired legs, my legs had been touring, floating through the sky, and now were fresh and ready to play.

I made a few mistakes early, even though I'd planned to protect the disc. I had an immediate drop as the dewy disc slid through my hands. I tossed away two dump throws, one because the handler wasn't in position yet and one because he wasn't headed where I expected. I tossed away two other throws that I really want back in that first game as well. I was excited and zipped them in. One was better than the other, but both were inside and overzealous.

We couldn't find a way to win, so the team went 3-4 on the weekend, but I was mostly proud of the way we were playing and it was nice to start to get a feel for what people like to do. I'm excited to keep that process going.

I had a few highlights that I'm proud of. I positioned myself on a floaty huck and came down with a grab. I had some help D's where I got to sky some ladies. My two best plays came in our last game though. I caught a huck and called time out. We set up an iso play to Karpo, but I couldn't find space I was happy with, so Andy, my current favorite handler wheeled around behind me for the dump. I flipped something a little too close to a push-pass to him and then headed up line on that force side. He sent me to the edge of the end zone, but I was able to plant my foot in bounds and make the grab before I stepped out.

The other play was also in the end zone. The vertical stack was a mess. The cutters weren't getting open, or when we did, we were still five yards out of the end zone. The handlers worked it and sometimes got it to a cutter, who flipped it back to them. It was the end of a hot day, so this seems like it went on for minutes. I made a force side cut from the back of the stack and had a little bit of daylight. My defender was close and pretty speedy. Bruce Wayne fired the disc at me. The defender was well positioned to make a play, but I was able to reach forward and grab the disc for the score. It was nice to get one of those. I feel like I'm on the end of that sort of thing a lot. Maybe it's more noticeable from the other end.

More Ultimate tales to come. I'm pretty pleased with how the season is going so far. Winning hasn't been the thing for a while now. I'd like to win, but it's fun to play, make new friends, and build something together. Meanwhile, the psoas seems to be holding out. I'm working out and massaging it quite regularly. It's been manageable and I hope it will stay that way.

For the non-sports fans, I may have a vacation recap rattling around in my head somewhere. Maybe I'll be able to squeeze it out.

Five fingers, five toes

I finally ran in my Vibram five finger shoes. I've been walking in them a few times a week for a while. I work out in them, but I hadn't been on a run. They work my ankle support muscles and my calves, even on a walk. For the run, I was tentative at first. I found a park near Chicago. The ground was soft, a little muddy even. I warmed up properly. I trotted through the grass. I delicately placed my feet. I avoided tree roots and watched for drunkard's glass. I gingerly stepped over asphalt and sidewalk and tried to stay on the path. The single track wound around the way. I chased it and got more comfortable with the run. I sped up. My strides didn't lengthen, they had to quicken. My heels grazed the ground. My ankle creaked, but on I sped over grass and mud. Stepping lightly again over asphalt and concrete. Pace quickening. Choppy stops. Up the muddy hill I ran. All my toes engaged. I felt balanced even in the slippery conditions. I wrapped it up in 20 minutes. My calves and hamstrings both felt used. My shoes were wet with mud and sweat.

Man, do they stink now.

Bell Crack

I’ve been to about 10 Ultimate tournaments in the past year, but other than Wildwood on the beach, I don’t know when I last traveled and stayed over night at a tournament I played. It felt odd at first to be at Bell Crack in PA. There were new faces and new names to learn. The setting felt familiar and yet I felt somehow out of place. It wasn’t one or two new names and faces either. It was more like 20. I’d picked up a few names at try-outs, but for the most part I am still learning.

On Saturday, we played like a team of strangers. There were a few moments where the team worked together, but a lot of moments where we looked lost and confused. Our results would reflect our struggle. We lost all three games and none were particularly close. Each contained pretty significant lapses where we fell behind. In two games, we were beaten by a star and a reasonable supporting cast. Individually we matched up pretty well, but overall we were failing. There is much room to grow.

The cup of our zone forced a floaty throwaway in one game that led to an easy Callahan. I was in the right place to make that score. The sidelines enjoyed it immensely. I handled a bit and was frustrated by two throwaways one to a popper in the cup that just seemed to be about confusion over the open space and one through the cup that was all about letting a backhand sail too high to a cross field handler. My favorite point on Saturday was also my most exhausting. One of my new teammates also played on a Rec league team I captained some time ago. I know he likes to huck. He knows I like to run. It works out well, sometimes. His first put in the zone was perfect, except that a speedy deep defender had more speed than we realized. By the time I knew that the defender was coming, I couldn’t adjust and we were back on defense. The second put was down the line, shorter, maybe 20-30 yards, but it didn’t come in bounds. It hovered a few feet out. I toed the line, laid out and tried to tap it over my shoulder on a greatest attempt. It wasn’t my greatest greatest attempt, I admit. Finally, we connected on a deep shot almost like the first one. This time the deep defender didn’t get there in time. I was fortunate that between at least one of these points, my opponent chose not to do much running because I was breathing heavily and trying to recover.

I think my experience with Andy from Rec league was helpful, because it allowed others to see me as a deep threat. I had a fair amount of success on the in-cuts as well and I felt like I was able to play some pretty good D, although I think my mark was lacking somewhat. Karpo called me “grease” for any offensive line, which was a nice compliment. I had a few more throwaways, maybe 6 in all, and I was D’d once on an in cut. That’s far too many turnovers, but I’m a little rusty. I feel like I’m not moving as well with the disc as I used to and I also thought that defenders were more likely to take away the lane. I need to work on exploiting that with break looks or dump movement. I did get off one huck that I was pretty pleased with, but it floated just a little too long and got knocked down.

On Day 2, I feel like my highs were higher and my lows were lower. I bid multiple times on Sunday on defense. On one I connected, but the disc spun up into the air and my receiver came down with it. Vowing to catch the next one, I all but had my hand around it and yet somehow the receiver still came up with it. I’ll have to work out those kinks.

My hamstrings were really sore all weekend, but especially on Sunday. My concern over my recurring psoas injury was also increasing. I had a sweet grab early on a disc trailing away from me. I grabbed the trailing edge and then turned and threw (a really shaky throw) for the score. I called a foul, but I’m not sure it was much of a foul. The defender laid out in front of me and hit my hand just a bit. I think I was startled as much as anything.

In the same point that my D failed, my offense left me too. Chasing down a floaty huck, I jumped too early once, recovered, and as I jumped a second time a woman from the other team flashed past. I took my eye off the disc and it bounced off my hands.

Obviously, I still have some work to do to get back up to game speed. I did catch our only game winner though. After a turn, I sprinted toward the end zone figuring Andy would put it. He hadn’t reached the disc, so I took off sprinting for the in cut, caught his eye, and changed direction. He floated a bender into space. I jumped up and grabbed it. It felt good to get a victory.

Two other cool moments: I spotted a college teammate and a former Schaefer teammate on the fields. It was a nice treat to see them both. More Ultimate to come.

Other things cooking (more Ultimate)

I've got about six things that I've been meaning to post. Let me give the short version here and see if I can find my way back.

1. Vibram Five Fingers- I bought a pair after serious (for me) shopping. I haven't run in them yet, but so far I'm pleased. I like the theory of minimalist running.

2. Paul's Boston success- I followed along on a combination of Twitter, Facebook, and alerts from the race itself. It was this weird collective but lonely experience. It reminded me of the Internet.

3. Conference for Habit- The men had an up and down tournament, but beat Navy twice, once in a wild nail biter where a 9-2 lead became a 9-8 lead, became a 12-8 lead, became a 15-13 victory. That was the third place game. It turned out 4 of the 6 teams went on to Regionals, but at the time we thought it was only going to be three. It was the first D-III Conference after the reorganization. I'm giving it mixed reviews with Regionals coming up this weekend.

4. Regionals for the women- I didn't get to watch, but they held seed in a tiny five team region with only one bid to Nationals. Injury and absence proved difficult, but I think lessons were learned.

5. Elections and awards for Habit. It was a wacky fun night, but the Andrew Stillerman freshman of the year award went to Rich and the newly created Tada Gan Irracht award went to Ben who would also be named captain. There were senior cakes, hilarious underclassmen awards, and good fun as well.

6. Some combination of regionals, trying out for a team, and what I feel about next year. I still want the job as Ultimate coach, but I'm wondering if I'm the right fit. More discussion and reflection (at least in real life) on that to come. Leaning toward a mid-level mixed team, but haven't fully committed.

More later. Maybe.

All Time again

I wanted to detail my thoughts around the all-time list a little more.

Alan was a force. His place seems relatively assured on this list for some time. He was a force on the field with HUGE throws to seemingly any point and he willed the team as far as he could take them. He made everyone better and was undoubtedly the reason that some people stuck around when times were lean. As you know, he's appeared many times on this blog and I'm biased because he's my good friend, but I don't think anyone could disagree with his spot on this list.

Jared was a grad student and already a club level player when he joined us. He was mainly a tournament player, but he had a solid all around game and a great mind for strategy. He is definitely deserving of a spot on the list.

The third handler position is a tough choice:

Scrapper- I never saw him play in college, but I met him soon after. He was a club level player or soon would be and his throws were improving to match his athleticism. From what I'm told he really helped the team in his years there and was often the offense. It's hard to tell where he belongs on this list, but it's hard to imagine leaving him off.

John T. - He was a reluctant leader, but he and his three pals were the ones who decided that they should cut ties with wafc and really start trying to play in the series and compete regularly with other schools. Not the most athletic of players, he was a gifted thrower and a trusted handler. His play and the way he elevated the team and made them compete makes him deserving of a place on this list.

Pete came from high school having played for several years. He had been a cutter, but we immediately made him a handler because he could throw. He was out of his comfort zone, but he held his own in a supporting role and we counted on him to do that. It never quite felt like we let Pete get comfortable, but the team was always better with him there. If I had to make a cut, he would probably be the one right now even though I'd hate to see his effort on defense go.

Many of our cutters have had some trouble throwing.

Arin was a playmaker. I'm not sure how he feels about Ultimate and he's probably the most incomplete player on this list, but if you needed something to happen, Arin made it happen through size, force, and will. It was awesome.

Lemon is a playmaker in his own way. He doesn't have the size of Arin, but he's got brains and speed. He's been slowed by injuries, but he plays as much as his body allows and maybe a little more. He's been the heart of the team for two years now and his hands have improved and he knows how to pick his spots. He needs to be able to throw better, but he definitely deserves a spot on the list.

Paul is only a sophomore, already a captain and an awesome athlete. He can huck it a mile, jump as high, and has speed to go with that. He's on this list and he's another who will remain for a long time. We're going to squeeze out some more leadership from him and help him raise the games of those around him, but he's an incredible individual player.

The 4th cutter grouping is hotly contested and would be a tough decision.
Karpo had speed and hands. He was Lemon before there was a Lemon. He couldn't do much throwing, but he chased them down regularly. His efforts on D were all out and he kept coming at you. He was the perfect complement to John and that class.

Stills was a scoring machine. He found ways to get open. His lefty flicks were a little scary, but he worked hard to get better and he was a great teammate when he wanted to be. His ability to find a whole in the zone was uncanny.

Jimmy is a dark horse in my mind, but he had excellent hands and could pick his spots, especially in zone. He did it with less speed, but a good field sense. His hard throws in college just about drove me mad though.

Alumni game number 4

I wanted to get this on my blog and in my record of memory. The alumni game was a success. I spent a lot of time taking pictures and flitting among old friends. Following is my post-game note and write up.

"Thanks again for making the 4th annual alumni game a success! Thanks especially to Mark K for his generous support of the BBQ. Thanks to Tini for hosting. And thanks to all those who helped to organize teams, cook brats, direct traffic, cheer, and wait patiently to play.

In a break from tradition, we played three round robin games with a mixture of alums, students and guests sharing the field and the teams. We saw some great highlights in those games which ended with each team 1 and 1. One particular stand out for me was the Brian Heller huck to a sliding, diving Law School Pat. Other great moments included Tim Crowley diving around the field, Jimmy DeMartini directing traffic, Lemon hucking, and Sean Dorsy holstering a biscuit. Turned out he was actually saving up for a chicken wing for the score later. That's more like the Dorsy we know.

Even with a BBQ looming, almost everyone wanted to keep playing so we undertook the traditional alums vs. current team game. Planning a shortened game to 9, the game picked up where we've left off in previous years. The alums started out moving the disc well and working well together. Some wondered if the warm-up games had been in the alums favor, but later they'd claim the games had tired them out. The alums took half 5-4 and it looked like this might be the year they'd break out of their slump. Sam was unstoppable underneath and Jim McMahon was diving all over the place to get some sweet D's, but he couldn't find anyone on the other end of his hucks.

The current team struck back quickly and re-established a lead. With a nod toward strategy, the alums pulled out a zone in the second half. It created a few turns, but the momentum had shifted. Frodo ran the offense and really had the alums talking on the sidelines. Jen tracked down some hucks. Then with some snappy disc movement and some forced hucks, the current team ran their record to 4-0 by taking the game 9-7.

At the BBQ the conversation shifted to an all-time all-Catholic team. It was a lively, friendly, and fun discussion and I'll hope you take it that way. Remember that the crowd skews younger with '02 or '03 being the earliest class represented. The rules of the All-Catholic team were spotty, but everyone did agree that only play at Catholic, not later development should be counted. With that in mind, the proposed all-time all-Catholic team looked like this.

The three handlers would be Alan J, Jared A, and either Pete W, John T, or Scrapper Woods.
The four cutters would be: Arin H, Andy "Lemon" , Paul G, and either Mike "Karpo" , or Andrew "Stills" . (Added: There was also some lobbying for Jimmy D and his good hands as a cutter.)

The important lesson in this for young players out there is that if you want to be considered for the all-time team, you should use your last name to create a nickname.

All in good fun! Thanks again to everyone. This is a fantastic tradition and I really appreciate your support!"

I found the all-time CUA team discussion to be particularly interesting, since I have/had seen the most players in action out of anybody. What I found really difficult was to compare the players who really never played together. It's so hard to tell if a player who carried the team in one year would have had that same effect in other years. How much did teammates have an effect? Even that question has two meanings. In some cases teammates surely made each other better, but in another context it also meant that a stand-out in one year might have been part of the crowd in another.

I think others had their own problems with this discussion too. Freshmen from four years ago had seniors that they looked up to and in some cases had seen evolve in the DC Ultimate scene. Karpo was initially named as one of the starting handlers until several others jumped in to say that in college he was barely allowed to throw.

I'm sure there are others who go back into the late '90s and early '00s and the early formation of the team that should be considered, but no one was at the game to champion them. There's been a pretty big shift in the game over those years and a shift on the support and interest of the university, so who knows?

It's a fun discussion.

Three point five thoughts from a full weekend

Last weekend I patrolled the sidelines of Steakfest '11. For a while I tried to update scores by smartphone, but eventually lost interest. The guys ended up in 14th place. They were troubled by only having 9 players and eventually losing their star to a hamstring pull in game 2 on Sunday. They had a 2-6 record, but one key victory in a crossover game to make it to the championship bracket. They beat Cornell-B and Ursinis and lost to Georgetown, Columbia (x2), TCNJ, and American. They narrowly missed upsetting Georgetown in the windy opening game. They had two shots on universe point and one of those bounced off Lemon's outstretched hands (See how close they came here .) The girls ended up in 2nd place, going 5-2 with both of their losses coming to TCNJ. John G. was patrolling their sidelines and got good reviews. The girls dominated a few games notching victories of 15-0 and 15-1 and from the bits I saw are really starting to play some Ultimate.

There is much I could comment on, including how proud of everybody I am, but there are a few moments that I'm going to record for posterity.

The first is about Ben. Ben is a transfer and he's our secret weapon. He's started to catch everything, he cuts well, and he just keeps getting better. He's got a little hitch in his throw and he doesn't commit to the dump the way I think he should (shocking, I know), but he's really helping out the team. After making another fine grab, Ben is five yards out of the endzone. The count gets to nine. Ben just decides to get rid of the disc. Somehow his flick comes out vertical. It's a blade. The blade strikes a defender in the noggin, bounces or rolls over the defender's head and is caught by a diving Cocco. It was pure wackiness.

The second is about spiking the disc. In the championship game, down something like 12-4 and feeling frustrated, Super Jess makes a deep cut. Knockout throws a nice flick down the line, Jess jumps up and grabs it. Score. She comes down and spikes it hard on the ground. It's a celebration, but there's some angst in there. The game is observed, so I think that's held off some of the ugliness, but there's still a clear distaste forming between these two teams. Next point, the girl from TCNJ makes a grab and spikes the disc in clear retaliation. For a second everyone stops. It's shock or confusion or some combination of the two. A little chatter starts and then what's been observed is reflected by the observer. TCNJ girl was not in the endzone. Turnover. The sidelines guffaw. It's inconsequential as far as the outcome of the game, but not a moment I want to soon forget.

My final note on Manheim, PA is to say that other than the RV in Dallas, I've never stayed closer to a field. We walked out of the hotel and onto the fields. We could see the fields from our room. I don't expect that luxury regularly, but how sweet it can be.

Now, I want to play. I want my shins to stop hurting. Let's go.

Inheriting a car for a month

Giving up my car several years ago was a triumph of public transportation and good sense. I've made the most of it for many years. I've biked, grabbed rides from gracious friends, taken the Metro, participated in car-sharing, and perhaps stayed a little closer to home. Last month after C went down with a broken leg, her car suddenly became very available. I couldn't resist its lure. As the temperatures hovered just above freezing and the Ultimate practices hovered just before bed time, I borrowed the car on a regular basis. At 8 o'clock at night and beyond, the car was a treat to warmly whisk me to practice and home again.

Unfortunately, it wasn't all evening back street driving. Clare also asked me to drive her a few places. Those adventures didn't go as well. The hour was usually day time and the traffic was thicker than I like my milkshakes. I don't have a great sense of direction anyway, but having a passenger who would rather be driving only made my misdirection seem more severe. All my reasons for choosing to be mostly car-less came rushing back. I think what Sartre really meant was, Hell is other people- in cars. In this city there are just too many cars vying for too little space. Then they want to park too.

It has been a great relief to return to my bike. Yes, I often feel that I'm going to be crushed under the weight of a giant unfeeling steel and plexiglass box on wheels, but at least I'm going to go out with a sense of freedom and control.

Part II
Although Clare has reclaimed her car, this experience has made me realize that in the world of car-less, I no longer fully count. I'm not pure. I do have more access than before. I live in a household with a car. At some point in my life, I think this blurring of the line would have bothered me greatly. Now, I acknowledge it, but I'm going to go about my business. Also, I think I'll go for a bike ride.

A tale of a mattress written in exactly five minutes
At first there was nothing, but a sleeping bag. Then came a mattress out of a garage. I look back on that time and I wonder, "how was that ok?" It was.

Next came a mattress, just the mattress, flopped on the floor. I was happy there. The mattress was firm. I was low to the ground. The danger of falling was minimized. Time passed and my need to stay low was overtaken by a need to grow up. Pressure mounted. I caved. My mattress was joined by box springs.

My firm Serta Ferndale Supreme mattress and a fine box spring made their way together through the years. Until, one day, my mattress and my box spring no longer fit my life. I needed a new mattress. I found one. It was firm. It would fit.

It arrived damp. Phone calls were made. Angry action threatened. Curses sent under my breath. Nothing took effect. Finally, a call to my credit card company stopped payment on the damp mattress. Still it sat in my room, propped up on the window, unmoving. For months. I had to get another mattress. I chose quickly. I felt pressured to right my wrongs, pressured to find a satisfying sleep.

A mattress trade later and I had just enough comfort to survive. This is not an easy tale to tell. I tried to call Serta to see if they had a replacement for the Ferndale Supreme, but they needed more information. My frustration continued.

Finally, they came and took my damp mattress away. It's only been 5 months.

That story took an extra 22 seconds. The end.

Live Blogging the Oscars (until I get bored)

Oops. I'm late. Good thing I don't actually have live readers. (Not that you're not alive, just, well you know...) I caught the introduction, got excited about Back to the Future and then thought that it was poorly used. I liked the younger dynamic joke, but am unsure about these hosts Anne Hathaway and James Franco. Hey, Morgan Freeman! Why isn't he hosting?

Gone with the Wind references and all this mom talk have me missing mine.

8:45 Let the awkward speeches begin.

8:49 First commercial break- affordable fashion with JCPenney, inspiring children with McDonald's, the family angle with Hyundai. Finally, iPad (oops I mean Samsung Tab) is the first one to not hit the "women's Super Bowl" demographic hard.

8:52 Kirk Douglas pulls off that compliment to Anne Hathaway with class.

8:54 Helena Bonham Carter looks great and King's Speech is the only one I saw, but I bet True Grit gets best supporting actress.

8:56Good thing I don't bet. Melissa Leo from The Fighter seems completely shocked, genuine, and just got censored. Yes!

9:01 The hosts seem to be relaxing. Maybe that's not good.

9:02 An app joke? Unimpressed. And are those breast tattoos Mila? I know they aren't and I might still be impressed.
I'm not sure I'm young and hip enough for this Oscars, though.

The problem I'm having here is providing context and a response. I'm starting to doubt my talent as a LiveBlogger. Perhaps, I'd be better off watching with someone else rather than reaching out to the Internet.

9:09 Commercial break: We're going less overtly female this round. Hyundai is back again. So's Samsung Tab; no wait, that's Kindle. I kind of liked the quiet pitch they made. Then came the quiet pitch for Fancy Feast. How in the world does a cat food manage to tie itself into the wedding industrial complex? And does that make sense?

9:15 Aaron Sorkin can write. He just picked up the Screenwriter's Oscar. Seems like an interesting fellow. I'd listen to more but the musical hook is coming to take him away. Still he manages to ask for respect from a guinea pig. Not bad.

Ok. Thanks for reading. I'm through. This isn't doing it for me. I'm not sure how much Oscar I have left in me anyway. Good night and good luck.

My fountain of youth makes it hard to walk

Decked out in neon green shorts and matching neon emblems on our chest, the Catholic team split in two for the first tournament of the semester. It was mixed, the only one on the schedule this year. We pulled in some alumni help and I strapped on my ankle brace and laced up my cleats. I'd been bothered by a shin splint all week, but at game time the pain was gone. That was a relief.

Dubbed team pretty, we had most of the handlers while the other team was team gawgeous and had most of the cutters. Gawgeous looked fast and explosive, but they were mostly without our star Paul as he's battling an injury. In this one day tourney, Gawgeous would be 2-2 in pool play and end up tied for 3rd overall with a nice performance from a couple rookies and strong leadership from Lemon and John. They had lots of hustle, including the exciting return of Senor Banjo in short spurts.

Team pretty got off to an ugly start. Our throws were off and our cuts just weren't coming. We were quickly and easily dispatched by one of the teams that would reach the championship. Our second game was better, but we still struggled in spurts with throwaways and the little big things like setting up cuts and using good fakes on throws. Pretty was joined by Jim and Kyle and both were big contributors to our success. Jim's forehand huck was our weapon of choice, but he also found some success with his backhand. I had a personal highlight in the second game as universe point rolled around. The other team had the disc on the goal line and was looking to score. I was on the mark and as the thrower released I yelled up just as the disc smacked into my hand. We went on to win the game. It was probably Ben who caught the score, though I don't remember for sure. Ben emerged as our favorite target coming down with lots of scores during the day.

It was fun to see Kyle and his amazing little-guy ups. I'd love to see him with bigger throws. For me as I was cutting deep for him, but also for him because I know he sees the field and reigns it in. Frodo continued to play well. The best part for me is to see him shake off mistakes. He had a couple rough ones: a dropped pull and a dump for a callahan, but he shook them off immediately and got right back to business. We were fighting some injuries on team pretty, but as our numbers dwindled a bit, we seemed to be clicking better.

The women played well. Jess is dominant and fun to watch. She skyed a guy and scored a number of times on up the line cuts with sweet little grabs. She forced a few hucks that worked in our favor too. The crowd loves her and she works hard. My only criticism is that when she meets her equal in speed, she ends up chasing on D. This is my recurring complaint about most of the team this year, so I shouldn't be too hard on her. This was Marian's first tournament and I was excited to see her get a score and a couple catches as a cutter. She's feisty and I get the sense that once she figures the game out she's really going to like it and contribute. I hope that can happen within this semester.

Back to me, it's my blog. The fields were short and the competition sometimes shoddy, but I had a good time. I got frustrated and tired at times, but Ultimate is good. I loved pulling down deep puts from Jim and I felt like my deep puts were having more success than usual. I had one or two bad drops and five or six bad throwaways, but I also had a couple grabs that I'm really proud of. They felt well timed. Overall it was a good day. That's what it's all about. I think because I knew alumni were around and playing, I never let that feeling of not belonging creep in. It's pretty awesome to still be a part of Catholic Ultimate. The drama has been high at times this year, but days like yesterday make that easy to forget. We ended up fifth, dominating a game to 5 as the sun was setting. Thanks, Catholic.

There's music in my pants

Drums are awesome. When I was a kid, I wanted to be in a drum line. The thrill of the bang, a parade, that rhythmic sound like a giant heart beating. BAM, BAM, BAM of the bass, the rat-tat-tat of the snare made me wave my arms and play in my imaginary band. It brought the streets to life. It gave the lines of clowns and shriners a pulsing hop in their step. I wanted to be a drummer.

I don't really remember when that dream went quiet. I think it just slowly leaked away from me. It might have been the inferior quality of my Fisher Price drums or it might have been the value of peace and quiet that my parents subtly instilled. The high cost of a drum set surely played a part, but I was too young to understand that. It could have been that I just went to fewer parades. Do parades in another countries have drum lines? The marching band seems like it could be more American with its size and volume. Maybe I missed some that way.

My memory is fuzzy, but the drums got replaced by another instrument. What it lacked in verve it more than made up in portability. Particularly, my first harmonica, which fit easily in the pocket of a first grader. My first harmonica was a miniature. I could blow through it and then hide it under my tongue. It was a great recess trick. I did worry about choking on it in the event that I was hit by a four-square ball (or more likely in a game of sap), so I was careful to use my trick away from the ball games. It was fine for when I was climbing on the lincoln-log-esque tee-pees or for trying to get the attention of the girls like Candice and Autumn.

I suppose I lost that miniature harmonica. I had a tendency to lose things at that age, especially hats, so to lose an instrument smaller than my finger seems quite likely. I soon replaced the miniature with a beautiful full-sized Hohner Echo in a yellow carrying case. It fit in my pocket, but not under my tongue. The Echo was made in Germany and probably purchased there too. I can't remember picking it out specifically, but I do remember looking through many glass counters at the rows of harmonicas. The rows were full of musical possibility. Possibility that has mostly gone unrealized for me. These days the twenty-something Echo has lost a bit of its shine. The red edges still contrast with the silvery metal, but a bit of rust and twenty some-odd years of boy mouth dust have collected on the front side.

Somewhere along the line, I picked up another harmonica. I think it was a Hohner too. Single hole, in a blue carrying case, possibly a G rather than a C. It shows a little less wear. Sometimes I play these harmonicas, picturing myself in Folsom prison, out on the prairie, or riding the rails. I don't play them well and I don't usually play tunes that are recognizable, but there's something about that metallic sound and its portability that makes me keep them around.