It just takes a little
There is a tightness in my stomach. It's not nerves or a premonition or a hernia. What it lacks in narrative qualities it makes up in ongoing pain and annoyance. The abdomen is a vastly underrated piece of the machinery of being mobile. I know it should, but my pain has not stopped me from playing Ultimate, a less-than-stellar brand of the stuff, but Ultimate still. Today the off brand was particularly frustrating, as the pain in my abs was supplemented by the very poor decision to eat pre-game pie.
Take it from me, pre-game pie equals error. Pregame pie will, how do you say, gum the works. It's a recipe for the gastrointestinal fireworks. Not, as Napoleon would claim, flippin' sweet. So between the muscles that surround my stomach and the stuff going on inside I was not exactly fit to rock. I was probably more fit to be a rock.
Dropped passes, poor throws, a handblock by my defender... my play was a reflection of my mid-section. Except for three points where it wasn't. The highlight of those three was when my defender asked, "do you stop running?" At least for a moment, my torso went back to being carried around and around by my legs.
That's better than post-game pie.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I'm trying
In about fifth grade, I tried out for the Bob's IGA baseball team. Bob's IGA was a grocer, now defunct, and strikes me as an excellent little leauge team sponsor. I don't know whether Bob was, I didn't make that team. I never had much of a bat, or much of an arm. My fielding was decent, but not spectacular, and certainly not enough to make up for my difficiencies in two other pretty important baseball skills.
My freshman year of high school, I tried out for the freshman basketball team. Baseball had been out of the picture for a while, and basketball was my new sporting interest. I was a five-foot something scrapper. My shot was ok at best and it was matched by my passing and dribbling abilities. I could run and I could out-rebound a lot of other five-foot somethings. I might have had a chance. Only in my preparation for basketball I had discovered running. Running, it turned out, I could do well. After a single day of gymrat-like drills, I realized something about basketball. It wasn't running. So I scrapped plans to be a high school basketball player.
That was my last tryout for a long time. Running tends to take all-comers. Ultimate in most communities tends to do the same, and if it doesn't, there seems to be a self-sorting process. Not in this town. The Ultimate community in DC is large enough to support at least two men's Open club teams, and might have room for a third. So, after nearly 14 years without a tryout (job interviews don't count), I found myself out on the field trying to prove something to the people doing the picking.
It's been a complicated thing trying out for an Ultimate team. It's complicated by my body and its nonverbal complaining. It's also complicated by the sheer dependence on other people. There are certain skills that can make an Ultimate player shine, but to really have a great day, it takes great teammates. Teammates, who in this case are also trying out. Add to the mix, the wind, the lack of a weekend-ending goal, and this try out somehow seems more involved than my other two. It could be that it's more involved because, I've been playing this sport for 6 years and for once in a tryout my positive attributes seem to outweigh the negative. Maybe there's more at stake too.
The most interesting part of the process for me is trying to find the line between those that are going to get cut and those that aren't. It seems so fine. Talk about complicated, the best players may not get chosen, based on a team concept. Sometimes the best outright don't fit with the other puzzle pieces. In that sense, I'm glad I'm not the one doing the picking. This isn't gym class, but I'm never quite sure what it is. Fun, hopefully.
In about fifth grade, I tried out for the Bob's IGA baseball team. Bob's IGA was a grocer, now defunct, and strikes me as an excellent little leauge team sponsor. I don't know whether Bob was, I didn't make that team. I never had much of a bat, or much of an arm. My fielding was decent, but not spectacular, and certainly not enough to make up for my difficiencies in two other pretty important baseball skills.
My freshman year of high school, I tried out for the freshman basketball team. Baseball had been out of the picture for a while, and basketball was my new sporting interest. I was a five-foot something scrapper. My shot was ok at best and it was matched by my passing and dribbling abilities. I could run and I could out-rebound a lot of other five-foot somethings. I might have had a chance. Only in my preparation for basketball I had discovered running. Running, it turned out, I could do well. After a single day of gymrat-like drills, I realized something about basketball. It wasn't running. So I scrapped plans to be a high school basketball player.
That was my last tryout for a long time. Running tends to take all-comers. Ultimate in most communities tends to do the same, and if it doesn't, there seems to be a self-sorting process. Not in this town. The Ultimate community in DC is large enough to support at least two men's Open club teams, and might have room for a third. So, after nearly 14 years without a tryout (job interviews don't count), I found myself out on the field trying to prove something to the people doing the picking.
It's been a complicated thing trying out for an Ultimate team. It's complicated by my body and its nonverbal complaining. It's also complicated by the sheer dependence on other people. There are certain skills that can make an Ultimate player shine, but to really have a great day, it takes great teammates. Teammates, who in this case are also trying out. Add to the mix, the wind, the lack of a weekend-ending goal, and this try out somehow seems more involved than my other two. It could be that it's more involved because, I've been playing this sport for 6 years and for once in a tryout my positive attributes seem to outweigh the negative. Maybe there's more at stake too.
The most interesting part of the process for me is trying to find the line between those that are going to get cut and those that aren't. It seems so fine. Talk about complicated, the best players may not get chosen, based on a team concept. Sometimes the best outright don't fit with the other puzzle pieces. In that sense, I'm glad I'm not the one doing the picking. This isn't gym class, but I'm never quite sure what it is. Fun, hopefully.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
This game wouldn't be fun if we were perfect
There are moments when discs stick to hands like crazy glue is somehow involved, days where the sun shines brighter than an HDTV, and times when words fall into this box like they were wild horses released from a pen. Then there are moments, days, and times when the very opposite occurs.
Yesterday, in my first game of the day after my first cut, I had a moment when the disc hit my hand and glanced off, floating away in a sea of surprise and disappointment. It was a harbinger. The day was not filled with those moments, but we were never quite able to right the ship. And we sank.
The day was overcast. Rain has threatened us for nearly a week. It hasn't made good on those threats, perhaps realizing it is too drunk to fight, or maybe hoping that the threats will be enough to keep us in line. With the threat still lingering somewhere between cloud and sky..... Soaked. Shirt, shorts, face dripping with water. The weather had risen to the challenge and fulfilled the threats in a storm of nature's tears. With drops of rain rolling down my bike helmet and into my beard, I could not help but sing.
Rain. Rainbows. Lemons. Lemonade.
Times. Times just like these. When the wild horses can't be found and the pen isn't even mightier than the sod. Not that grass can't cut deep. They don't call 'em blades for nothing.
There are moments when discs stick to hands like crazy glue is somehow involved, days where the sun shines brighter than an HDTV, and times when words fall into this box like they were wild horses released from a pen. Then there are moments, days, and times when the very opposite occurs.
Yesterday, in my first game of the day after my first cut, I had a moment when the disc hit my hand and glanced off, floating away in a sea of surprise and disappointment. It was a harbinger. The day was not filled with those moments, but we were never quite able to right the ship. And we sank.
The day was overcast. Rain has threatened us for nearly a week. It hasn't made good on those threats, perhaps realizing it is too drunk to fight, or maybe hoping that the threats will be enough to keep us in line. With the threat still lingering somewhere between cloud and sky..... Soaked. Shirt, shorts, face dripping with water. The weather had risen to the challenge and fulfilled the threats in a storm of nature's tears. With drops of rain rolling down my bike helmet and into my beard, I could not help but sing.
Rain. Rainbows. Lemons. Lemonade.
Times. Times just like these. When the wild horses can't be found and the pen isn't even mightier than the sod. Not that grass can't cut deep. They don't call 'em blades for nothing.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The life of a bean
Tonight I want the life that the L.L. Bean catalog promises me. I want to be in a place with my Adirondack chair in one of its three adjustable positions, perhaps all three as I mirror the sun sinking behind the lake. As darkness drips over the scene, I'd pull on my hunter green anorak, snuggling comfortably up near the light of a rechargeable lantern to finish a chapter in my Tom Robbins book. There'd be no mosquitos in my night. The only pest would be the one inside of me wondering how I'd gone so long without crocs hugging my feet. Yawning, but knowing that the night was too young for sleep, I'd switch on my LED boules balls and play the game that European campers preferred 20 years ago. Only, I'd do it in the dark. With the moonlit-colored jack just centimeters away, I'd emerge victorious, chuckle audibly with my mates, and then retire to my hammock, pulling a fleece blanket tightly around me and nursing my beef jerky. During my slumber I'd dream of another day frolicking near the dock under the warm summer sun. When the only cloud in the sky failed to shade me, I'd pull on my British-khaki-colored trekking hat, adjust the neck strap, and return to the frolick already in progress.
Tonight I want the life that the L.L. Bean catalog promises me. I want to be in a place with my Adirondack chair in one of its three adjustable positions, perhaps all three as I mirror the sun sinking behind the lake. As darkness drips over the scene, I'd pull on my hunter green anorak, snuggling comfortably up near the light of a rechargeable lantern to finish a chapter in my Tom Robbins book. There'd be no mosquitos in my night. The only pest would be the one inside of me wondering how I'd gone so long without crocs hugging my feet. Yawning, but knowing that the night was too young for sleep, I'd switch on my LED boules balls and play the game that European campers preferred 20 years ago. Only, I'd do it in the dark. With the moonlit-colored jack just centimeters away, I'd emerge victorious, chuckle audibly with my mates, and then retire to my hammock, pulling a fleece blanket tightly around me and nursing my beef jerky. During my slumber I'd dream of another day frolicking near the dock under the warm summer sun. When the only cloud in the sky failed to shade me, I'd pull on my British-khaki-colored trekking hat, adjust the neck strap, and return to the frolick already in progress.
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