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?