My College Playing Days - Part 2

I have burned out. Not from ultimate, but from school. Three and a half years of all-nighters, late-nighters and weekends spent studying. Now I don’t have anything left to give for the last, crucial half a semester. I’m spent. I watch most all my grades slide at least one full letter. I barely pass my electrical engineering class (an engineering school distribution requirement) to salvage my graduation status.

I miss qualifying for the diving national championships (Division III) by slightly over-rotating my final dive (a back one and a half with one and a half twists - my favorite dive) in our final meet. My total score falls short by less than 4 points out of the 500 point qualifying score. Almost, but not quite.

Then there is ultimate. Gary has figured out the funding system for the school clubs. Wash U may be a school that demands a lot of work, but they do have a lot of money. And they spend it. On their students. Gary heads off to the spring club funding meeting one night. I ask him how much money he is going to request. He says, “I don’t know, I guess I can justify asking for upwards of six thousand dollars.”

“SIX THOUSAND DOLLARS!! Are you nuts?!?”

“No, I and I think we’ll get it.”

Later that night, he comes back to the apartment with a slightly ambiguous expression on his face. “So ... did you get the six thousand?” I jab.

“No,”

“I knew you were crazy to ask for that much. Who do you think you -“

“I got ten thousand.”

“WHAT!?!”

Smirk on his face, “Ten thousand, I’m not kidding. And it was easy.”

“How? Who? What?” I’m not forming any sentences, but I am giddy.

“They go through the clubs alphabetically. Ultimate is near the end of the list. I asked for the six thousand. They asked for a budget and a mission statement. I handed them both, nicely type-written. All the budget figures were ... um ... slightly exaggerated, but not outrageous. Plausible.”

I’m shaking my head beginning to laugh.

“So, after they summarily grant us the full amount, I decide to stick around until the last couple of clubs are done.”

“Why?” I ask, not even really caring, just happy with the result.

“Because they were giving just about everyone, just about everything they asked for. I figured they must have a pretty big pot of money to be spending it so generously all night long.”

I’m nodding, agreeing with his logic.

“So, after the last request is granted and just about everyone else is out the door, I hear the committee discuss what to do with their budget surplus. Me and a few other savvy club reps immediately start requesting more money. I asked for an additional four to make it an even ten thousand. Simple. Granted. Done.” His self-satisfied smile never looked better to me. We both burst out laughing, sharing high fives, and immediately start planning to see how we can spend that much money.

We are only planning on going to three tournaments, all within driving distance. Kansas Fools and College Sectionals in April. Regionals is in Madison, Wisconsin in early May. At least ... we are hoping to qualify for Regionals. Transportation costs won’t be too high. I have my own car, but some of the people on the team will be able to rent a van to travel in now. All the gas will be paid for, all the meals. We book some of the best hotels in Lawrence for Fools. No slumming ten people to a room. For us, two to a room, we each have a bed. Not too shabby.

Fools is a new experience for me. Not only are there a bunch of college teams, but there are also club teams. I didn’t even know that ultimate existed outside of colleges. But then again, four years earlier, I didn’t know that it existed outside of my high school in Connecticut.

Also, the level of competition is much higher than I have seen before. But, we have been practicing. I have been practicing. The team is better than last year. I am a better player than I have ever been. Faster, surer catches, better field sense, better backhand. Not much of a forehand, but I don’t generally try too much with it.

I only have one enduring memory from the play on the fields that weekend. We are playing the dreaded Horrozontals from Kansas. They are ahead of us, but we are making a game of it this time. It is not a matter of them going through the motions, they are actually having to work to score, and to stop us from scoring.

One of the guys on their team has been consistently matching up on me on defense. He seems very sure of himself. I don’t care. I am nearly out of college. I have survived the four most difficult but rewarding years of my life. I am playing a game that I love, with a bunch of cool people, and we are having fun, even if we aren’t the best. I couldn’t care much less what this guy thinks.

But he keeps calling “Pick” and stopping play. Then he catches up with me. Now, I am relatively sure what a pick is, and I have been trying hard to avoid them. But I can’t contest a pick, so I try to shrug it off. After the fourth or fifth one, I start to complain, “Where was the pick?!”

“That guy, over there,” pointing and gasping, he indicates my teammate five yards across the field. “I had to stop because he was heading towards me.”

I’m flustered. I don’t think he can be right, but I’m not completely sure.

“That is such bullshit!” Gary screams from the handler position.

“Hey! Stay out of it, you didn’t see it,” responds Kansas Joel.

Play restarts, but now I am completely fired up. A short cut back down the near side towards the disc. I see it start to swing to the middle handler. Gary is going to get the next continuation pass. I am off. I plant, cut, and put my head down. Next stop ... far corner of the endzone. I can already visualize the soaring forehand that is going to be waiting for me. I am really starting to motor. The field has opened up and I glance back to see the continuation throw heading towards Gary. Time to shift to top gear.

“PICK!”

“What the FUCK!!” I can’t contain it any more. As I spin around, Joel is just sliding to a stop five yards away from me. “That is not a pick!” I am pointing at him and advancing. Not exactly intimidating, but I am pissed.

I hear a voice off to the side, “Joel, you can’t keep calling a pick every time that guy toasts you.” It’s one his teammates. Then I notice that multiple guys on their sideline are laughing. Not at me, but at Joel. He is not happy.

“Shut up! It was a pick. Anyway, I’d like to see one of you guys cover him.”

Who? Me? He can’t be whining about covering me. I have figured out that I don’t really even know how to play this game as a sport. There are depths that I hadn’t contemplated before. And this guy is whining about covering me? I’m flattered, but maybe he’s just not very good.

After the game (we lost), Gary remarks, “You sure used up their captain.”

“That guy Joel is their captain?” Me. Incredulous.

“Yeah. One of their captains. But you sure tooled him. Nice job.”

“Thanks,” It means a lot to me. Not much else working out for me these days, but ultimate is getting really fun.

My first ultimate party - Fools 1987. We didn’t stay too long. Enough to drink a fair amount. Enough for me to appreciate the unabashed enthusiasm of the Kansas “Bettys” - a first for me. I hadn’t seen an entirely women’s team before. Let alone multiple women’s teams unleashed on a party. We had a couple of women on the Wash U team, but I didn’t know that there was an entire women’s division to the sport. That added not a little interest for me.

College Sectionals, nearby in Illinois, and I can’t attend. I’ve got to spend all day that Saturday taking my EIT national examination for engineering registration, the first tiny step towards getting an engineering license. I can’t remember what I had to do on that Sunday. Funny, at the time I probably never even considered driving two or three hours for one day of (maybe) two or three games of ultimate. I laugh and shake my head recalling many times of doing far more outrageous things just for a little ultimate. It gets into your blood like an infection and it is very hard to cure.

Wash U managed to qualify for Regionals in Madison and we weren’t even the lowest seed. At least, I don’t think we were. We practice hard, mainly scrimmaging and a few drills. No real conditioning beyond play. We talk a little strategy, along the lines of the vertical stack on offense, forcing on defense, maybe even a little about zones.

We book our rooms at the Hyatt in Madison, make dinner reservations in some nice restaurant, load up our vehicles with road munchies, food and drinks for the fields. Maybe a few beers. Cars full of free gas, we head off north. Thank you Wash U budget committee.

The morning of Regionals is cool and rainy with some wind gusts. The fields are boggy and I can’t grip the disc well. I’m not the only one on our team having trouble with throws. We get beaten handily in our first game. Not that we expected to win, but a little better showing would have been heartening. Well, our next opponent is the University of Chicago. They don’t look any better than us. They lost their first game too. We fight hard, hold a lead near the end. A couple of tough breaks, they rise to the occasion. They win. We lose. Their inflatable Godzilla is dancing on the field. They are ecstatic. I can’t believe we don’t have any more games. Two and out? That stinks.

I must admit, after the years have passed, the dinner that night is more memorable than the actual tournament. Ben declaring as we walk into the Thai restaurant that he doesn’t, “know what Thai food is, but as long as it’s not spicy, that’s fine with me. I can’t handle spice.”

Ben is sitting immediately to my left, Gary is across from me. During the bustle of fifteen people at one long table passing many multiple plates of unidentifiable dishes back and forth, I’m mainly concentrating on grabbing what looks good, what might be good, and a little of that weird looking stuff. Everyone is talking, laughing, recounting the day’s events. Things start to settle down as the serious business of eating commences.

At one point, I come across something VERY spicy on my plate. Thinking of Ben’s declaration, I realize that I haven’t heard him speaking in the last few moments. I turn to warn him of the lurking possibility of those tiny, but potent, green peppers. He is staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, slack expression to the point where his mouth is actually hanging open.

“Jesus .. Ben, you alright?” No answer.

“Ben?” No response. I’m starting to get a little nervous.

“Hey you guys, I think Ben is about to ... I don’t know ... pass out or something. I think he ate one of those hot peppers.”

There is a quickly spreading realization down the table. A hush settles on our group.

“Ben,” I ask, “are you OK?” His head begins slowly turning towards me in odd, jerking increments. I notice that saliva is spilling generously over the precipice of his lower lip. It is cascading out, a steady stream down into his lap.

“Ben?”

Without focusing his eyes, without actually moving his tongue, and with minimal lower jaw motion, he breathes, “Maah mouff iii ahh hiahhh.”

“What?” I’m starting to laugh despite my better intentions.

“Maaahh MOUFF iiii ahhhh HIIIAHHH!” His eyes are starting to focus on me. I’m sure he can see the shudders starting to wrack me. I know he can hear everyone else starting to burst.

“His mouth is on fire!” Someone helpfully translates. We all absolutely lose it.

I’ve got a huge grin on my face as I write this, just remembering. I was rocking back and forth in my chair, fighting to breathe past the body encompassing roar at the time. Everyone was in various states of hilarity ... except Ben. He is starting to furiously gesticulate, mouthing weird unintelligible threats at each of us. Spittle is flying. We are not being very sympathetic.

Before any of us can actually die from lack of air, the owner hurries over to our table, glass of milk in hand. Ben eagerly drinks it down. Sadly, that appears to have helped substantially. Oh, well, all good things come to an end.

Funny how so many of my later ultimate memories are results of off field antics and follies. This was just the first of those many, many laughs.

I don’t have any physical keepsake from that Regionals. I didn’t buy a disc and long ago parted with the long sleeved black shirt with white checker board design. I have a picture of me and my sister on the morning before my graduation. In it, I am wearing that shirt. I had bought my first official ultimate tournament disc at that Kansas, a “Fools Fest 1987" disc with a cool half-foreground half-background jester design.

I actually paused just now and wished I still had that disc. I lost it long ago. Not realizing what it would be the harbinger of. I am nostalgic for that distant year of my ultimate awakening.