Head West Young Man ... Whoa, Where do You Think You’re Going?

The Utah desert is flashing by at 80 miles an hour. A blur of dust and smoky greys, browns, and distant pastels. No air conditioning in the car. Windows down to offset the oven-like heat. U2 blaring out of the speakers. It is September 1987 and I am off to San Francisco.

I am heading away back home. I had lived in Marin county, north of San Francisco, from ages seven to thirteen. I am familiar enough with the area to know that I love the geography and the weather. I know that Sandy, my college girlfriend, is living with her parents in the South Bay while going to graduate school. I also know that what seemed to be my best job offer came from a small civil/structural engineering firm in downtown San Francisco. When everything in the universe points in one direction, I eventually get the message.

Before leaving New England, I called Gary. “Yeah, I finally decided on the job in San Fran.”

He’s not too happy. He was hoping that I’d be moving to Boston and we’d end up rooming together while taking the town and the ultimate scene over by sheer force of will. That is, as long as we hadn’t torn each other’s faces off first. We get along great, as long as we are not confined alone in close quarters for long periods of time.

“Well, as soon as you get sick of it out there, let me know. I’ll help you find a job in Boston. They need engineers there too, you know.”

I appreciate his friendship more than I ever really tell him.

“You sure they have ultimate teams in San Francisco?”

“Yeah. Definitely. There’s a really good team called ... uhhhh ... Flying Circus out there. Great name.”

“Any other not-really-great teams?” I ask, being more realistic.

“There must be. You’ll find ‘em if you look around.”

Mind you, this is in the day before the internet, before news groups and web logs. This is still in the informational stone age. Ok, maybe not stone age, but not much better than the bronze age when compared to the resources that an aspiring ultimate player has at their disposal these days. Also, there was the fact that it was still a definite fringe, cult sport. Almost nobody had heard of it unless they had personally played. OK, that hasn't changed much, but it was even worse back then.

My job, my relationship, my unsettled housing situation were all much higher up on the priority ladder than some silly sport is. But, deep down, lying quietly in the dark corners of my self, was a small but strong desire to continue playing. I hadn’t quite scratched the itch completely.

After two months of living at my girlfriend’s parent’s house, commuting by train to The City, I was still trying to come to grips with life outside of college. As an immediate reminder that I was in the Real World™ now, I called my new boss the Friday afternoon when I first arrived in the Bay Area.

“So, when do you want me to start?”

“Well, immediately, if that works for you.”

Full of gusto, “Sure, that would be great.”

“Good, we’ll see you on Monday at around eight AM then.”

“Um,” I say, not wanting to be too much of a pain immediately, “Isn’t Monday Columbus Day?”

“Yes,” slight chuckle, “but we’ll all be working here if you want to join us.”

A mental slap of my palm to my head. You’re not in college anymore Toto. Columbus Day is just another day to work. Man, am I really ready for this?

“I’ll be there by eight.” Doh!

Once I moved up to the city and into my own apartment, I started to realize how much I liked this concept of getting paid to do what I was doing in college. As a huge bonus, I actually laughed to myself each night when I went home without homework. No problem sets, no papers, no long nights of frustration spent banging a keyboard trying to debug ten thousand lines of poorly conceived computer code. I was free after work hours and on weekends. This feeling of overwhelming relief at the lack of homework would stick with me for at least ten years. No joke.

Now all I had to do was find someone to do something with.

Sandy was too busy during the week - and also many weekends - to get together. I knew absolutely no one outside of work. I started riding my bike around Golden Gate Park, prowling for signs of an ultimate game.

One Saturday afternoon, sometime in January or February, I am riding my bike along the south edge of the park enjoying the brisk but sunny day. No more shoveling driveways for me. I glance into a glade to my right. I see an upside-down disc sailing through the air. A little high, a little wobbly. But definitely an ultimate throw. Someone in the dozens down there knows how to play.

I brake to a stop and quickly zero in on two guys throwing confidently back and forth. Pivots, forehands, backhands. No wobbly “beach backhands” or sailing, flailing back-over-the-thrower’s-head ducks. This what I have been looking for.

I pedal towards them, drop my bike to the side, “Hey there. You guys play ultimate?”

The one nearest to me, long brownish near-dreadlocks, turns and smiles, “Yep. Wanna throw?” That’s all the invitation I need.

After about an hour of throwing, catching, jumping, cutting, we wind it down. Ed and Paul are their names. They have asked me about my extent of playing ultimate, where I came from, where I am living. They have provided me with the information that, yes, there is a game here most every Sunday around two o’clock. They say I’d be welcome to stop by anytime.

I pedal home totally psyched. I have managed to find my niche. The sport I am psyched to play and a group of people with an instant common bond. Both exactly what I needed. I am looking forward to tomorrow’s game so much that it is hard to sleep that night.

The next day doesn’t go exactly as I had envisioned it. In fact, it is basically a kick in the stomach. I show up early and start throwing with the few people that are there already. I haven’t become familiar with the concept of Ultimate Time yet. Cleats on, legs strong, slight sweat starting up, I notice the gathering throng. At least 30 players mostly men, a few women. The skill level seems to vary greatly. As does the apparent athleticism and degree of fitness.

Just as I think it is about time to break up into teams to start playing, one guys speaks up. He says something along the lines that it is time for a change. Things can’t stay the way they are. Apparently, this huge, structure-less mass has been a single team. Apparently, there are players that feel that it is time to “get serious”, to “demand commitment” to “try to get far at regionals.” Apparently, there is going to be a splitting of the group. And it appears to be happening today.

The guy in charge, Jeff, is gesturing as he says, “Everyone that wants to be serious, train hard, and practice, head over here,” he is pointing to his near right, “Everyone that simply wants to have fun and goof around, move over there.” Indifferent wave to the far left.

Now, I have played sports my whole life. First baseball for eight years. That was overlapped and exceeded by soccer for twelve years. Five years of diving including all four years of college. I know that I am not going to be a professional athlete, but I also know that I can’t be satisfied without a competitive outlet in my life. I need it like food and water. I head over towards the “serious” group off to the right.

“Hey. Whoa. Where are you heading? Who are you?”

I hesitate, he’s talking to me? “I’m going with this group. My name’s Bill.”

“Yeah, well Bill, how long have you been playing?” Sneering skepticism.

“A little over a year. But I’m pretty fast and I was learning the game this last summer.”

Just as he suspected, “Well, that’s nice, but we’re not looking to take on newbies.” I am starting to bristle. “Why don’t you just head over there with those guys. Learn the game a bit. Then maybe you can try out with us.” He’s already dismissed me.

“Listen! Why don’t you just give me a look, then decide.” I am pissed.

“Right, well we already have to make cuts, so ... forget it.”

Shaking my head in frustration and anger, I veer towards the “loser” group. My pals from the day before, Ed and Paul are there. They are happy to see me. I am less than happy to be with them. But I suppose it is better than nothing.