Starting at the Bottom

For the remainder of that winter, I played with the lower San Francisco team. After a few weeks of playing and talking and drinking after games in the park, I started to get the lay of the land out west.

Apparently, the top of the top was a team called “Tsunami.” They were the best players from all over the Bay Area and as far south as Santa Cruz. They were untouchable gods. Next step down was a team forming in the east bay with young guns and wily vets. Next step down was the new, competitive half of the San Francisco city crowd. They took the name Acme. I hated them.

Then there was us. The lowest link on the food chain. The Wild Bunch. We hadn’t taken the name immediately. There wasn’t much of a need for a name if you could never get enough people interested to go to a tournament. Hell, we could barely get fourteen people for a practice. Or even twelve. Usually a good, mediocre ten could be counted on.

While I was excited to be playing ultimate, I was not encouraged by the progress of our group. Never the same aggregation twice. Lots of wandering in and out of the loose gatherings we called practices. No real leaders beyond the guys that were willing to host a beer party at their house after playing. I was grateful to these guys for giving me a chance, but I wanted more.

Paul and his roommate had spent one long, rainy Saturday night teaching me to lay out for the disc. When it became apparent that no one beyond the three of us was going to brave the cool, wet conditions, Paul decided that a soggy, muddy field was perfect for teaching the art of launching for a disc. Throw after throw, time after time, he threw it beyond my reach and insisted that I catch it. Running hard, I would sometimes catch up with the overthrown disc on the small field without hitting the ground. “No, no! Slow down if you have to, but go hard at the end. Then launch.”

At first I was slightly hesitant, landing awkwardly, knocking the wind out of myself. He just laughed and said, “Try it again. Stop thinking and just do it.” By the end of the night, I had it. Or at least, I was getting close. I learned how to spread the impact over my torso. How to relax slightly, without allowing elbows or knees to hit first. I even began to enjoy the feeling of gliding along the sopping grass, disc in hand, smile on my face. Now I just had to incorporate making the play around another player. Baby steps.

I believe it was sometime in February or March when the pick-up games expanded to the polo fields in the western end of Golden Gate Park. On Sunday afternoons, there were increasingly large gatherings of ultimate players - men and women. The games were played with a fluctuating “first one back to the line” kind of hierarchy. Mostly, there was a continuous flow of players in and out of the lines. Generally, it was all men on the line, but when there were women, they lined up against each other. The days were cool and generally sunny. When it was rainy or unusually cold and foggy the turn-out was noticeably worse.

Occasionally, towards the end of the day, the game would evolve into a contest between teams mostly composed of Acme (those guys) pitted against the Wild Bunch (or whatever we were). At these times, the competition would start to heat up. Not nearly as much laughing and goofing around. It was a little more serious. There was still some bad blood between the few Wild Bunch players that felt slighted and there was a concerted effort on the part of the Acme players to prove that they had made the right decision to break off. Then there was me. I was still trying to learn the game, but I just knew that I could be as good as most of those damn Acme guys. I just needed a little coaching and some more experience. Unfortunately for me and underdog lovers everywhere, we always got soundly trounced. Never much of a contest. We generally celebrated excessively during the few times we managed to score. They just buckled down and crushed us even harder.

There were always women on the sidelines, mostly spectating after playing. They enjoyed the one sided contests. Mostly they dated the Acme guys. We earned their pity, but not much more.

Then, one Sunday afternoon, while the early, mixed game was proceeding, I noticed a new face on the field. There were always new people showing up. There was no shortage of players in the Bay Area, but there seemed to be a shortage of people that were willing to commit to more than one casual game every month or so when the weather was right.

This new guy was different. Not only was he better than most of the players out there, he also didn’t seem to have the ego that some of the Acme players sported. At one point he and I were taking the line on the same end of the field.

“Hey, my name is Bill.”

“I’m Mike Pomeroy,” he said shaking my hand and smiling.

“You new out here?”

“Yep, just glad to find a game of ultimate.” He was about five foot ten and completely ripped. Head to toe, no body fat visible. Not in an Arnold Schwartzeneger way, but in a rock climber way. Loose mop of blondish hair and light blue eyes. He wouldn’t have any trouble attracting the ladies.

As the point unfolded, I came to appreciate some of what he brought to the field. At this time, I was one of the main cutters for the ragged Wild Bunch. My five foot six inch frame wasn’t much of a deep threat, but they knew that I would keep running around out there until I got open. Once in a while, when one of the more competent throwers got the disc, I would break deep and hope for a long leading pass. I couldn’t do much if it floated, but I could beat just about anyone on the field in a sprint to the endzone.

So, as this particular point progressed with the usual number of annoying turnovers and slack defense, there was a chance for me to go deep. Mike Chico caught the disc on the left side at about mid-field. I was 15 yards down field in the center. I broke deep knowing noone would catch me. One of the Acme players was covering me and I was savoring the chance to roast him for the score.

I take off with one glance back to my left. Disc in the air and my defender falling behind. Just like I like it. No problem. All mine. Except, as I start accelerating to meet the disc, I am overtaken by a blur rushing past me on my right. Startled, I realize that it is this Mike guy, and he is pulling away from me like I am standing still. I, and everyone else, watch as he easily catches the score and quietly drops the disc, not even breathing hard.

As I look back on this moment, and many others when Mike and I were playing together, I can more completely appreciate his ability. When I was new to the game, say, in that long ago winter in San Francisco, I hadn’t encountered too many people that could outrun me. So, when Mike blazed past me with little effort, I was shocked. Now, thinking about it through the filter of hundreds of tournaments and decades of playing against thousands of opponents, I realize that there were only a few other players that made me feel as slow as he did. And mind you, I was still young and in shape back then. The various injuries were years in the future. Mike Pomeroy demolished the top speed I could ever muster.

And the best thing of all, he didn’t want to play with the Acme guys.

Once they got scorched by him in those informal games in the park, they knew enough to want to have him on their side rather than chance facing him when it might matter a little more. He wasn’t interested.



He had sussed out the situation, the various players, the attitudes and the expectations, he decided he would rather hang out with the low key losers than with the ego-inflated Acme players. Thank god. It was all the difference for me.

At this time, I was getting to the point where I was thinking that I might just give up playing. I wasn’t getting any better because I wasn’t playing with anyone that could teach me much more than I already knew. We were getting beaten consistently whenever we managed to cobble together a team to play in the one day Northern California Ultimate League (NUCL) [pronounced “knuckle”] tournaments (a group of mostly informal corporate teams around the Bay Area). I was starting to think that maybe I should concentrate on work with the occasional bike ride to stay in shape.

Then Mike Pomeroy waltzed into San Francisco. He and I and another infrequent ultimate player, Tom Asher, ended up being close friends and having many off field laughs and memories. But it was the fact that Mike was going to be on the field and at practice that kept me playing with the Wild Bunch. I remember multiple times when, during a heavily foggy day, I would ride my bike out to practice in the park and the only other players that would show up would be Mike Pomeroy and Leon. Leon was, at the time, in his late forties, married, with grown children. He played ultimate simply because he loved it. He played with the Wild Bunch simply because we were the only team that would have him.

It was during these times that Mike and I would start throwing and talking. Talking about how we wished we could play - the circumstances, the opportunities to compete. To prove that we could play with really good players and hold our own. That is what we wanted. Me even more so than him.

My playing days with the Wild Bunch and Mike Pomeroy culminated in our afternoon playing in the NCUL “B” division championships. A single Saturday afternoon round-robin that would determine the ranking of the lowest ten corporate, co-ed, and pick-up teams around the Bay Area. The top team would have a chance to play in the “A” division tourney two weeks later. Since the Wild Bunch hadn’t managed to win more than a handful of games in multiple weekends playing against these same teams, I wasn’t holding out much hope for greatness. Especially considering the fact that we didn’t even have our “A” team competing. Some of our better athletes were non-committal types that only showed up when it was convenient for them. Apparently, this particular weekend in late May wasn’t very convenient.

We had our usual assortment of enthusiastic guys that had never played much in the way of sports before ultimate. They loved playing, but the rudiments of 1) catching, 2) throwing, and 3) running were too much. They could all do one or two of the basics, but very few could do all three.

But we also had Mike Pomeroy this time.

It was surprisingly warm that afternoon at Roble field on Stanford’s campus. Tucked in a back northwest corner, Roble could only accommodate two full length and slightly narrow fields. You could squeeze another short field in if you were willing to truncate the other two pitches. This was the grand venue for NUCL B finals.

Somehow at this point, I guess out of sheer force of will on my part and general apathy on my teammate’s part, I had become the captain for our team. After our first game, which we surprisingly won, another one of the team captains came up to me.

“Hey, are you the captain of The Wild Bunch?” He is only half containing his obvious disdain for our team and me as a captain.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I’m Frank. Captain of the Hammer Heads. We play you guys in the last round today.”

“OK. So?” I’m not sure what he’s getting at and we have another game coming up immediately.

“Well, we were hoping to squeeze our game in against you guys earlier. What do you think?”

“I think that we have a game right now. I also think that we might as well stick to the schedule since there is limited field space anyway.” I am walking away to meet the rest of my team in the shade.

“Whatever. Maybe not now, but after the next round?” he’s pushing and I don’t like it.

“We’ll see.”

We play the next round, and shockingly, win again. Mostly our games can be summarized in a few phrases:

...Opponent turns it over. Mike Pomeroy breaks deep. Dan Handler or Mike Chico throw it long. Mike out-runs or out-jumps everyone for the disc.

...Wild Bunch has the disc. Bill runs around, fast, not stopping until his guy gets too tired to chase him. Eventually they throw a short pass to Bill in the endzone.

...Opponent tries throwing it to Mike Pomeroy’s guy. Mike gets a sick layout D. Mike or Bill break deep. Throw goes up. Score for the Wild Bunch.

So the day progresses. Improbably, we continue to win our games. Irritatingly, after each game it seems, Frank from the Hammer Heads keeps coming up to me, trying to squeeze our last round game against them into the intermission between succeeding rounds.

“Listen, what is the problem? Why don’t you just play us at the end when it is scheduled?” I ask him. Not only am I irritated, but I am dehydrated and exhausted. Its hot and we don’t have many subs. I don’t need this asshole in my face after every game.

He explains it all so reasonably to me, “We’re going to win this thing anyway and a bunch of us are supposed to be at a pool party this afternoon. We’d just like to get this out of the way and get to the party.”

Being the nice, understanding guy that I am, I reply, “Forget it! We’ll play you at the end like we’re scheduled. There’s no extra field space anyway.”

I can see that he is pissed, but I couldn’t care less. “You guys should either have figured on being late for the party or not shown up here.” I am walking away, too tired to deal with this any more.

“You little prick!” He is definitely not trying to be my next best ultimate pal.

We play our fourth game and manage to win. Apparently, Frank and the Hammerheads are, so far, equal to his boasting and have also won every game. Thus, the final game will be for all the marbles. Yes, the next hour or two would decide the Grand Champion of the NCUL B Division. The magnitude of the moment can not be overstated.

Unfortunately, it appears the unusual spring heat, lack of conditioning, and perhaps a little too much partying for some have taken a toll on the fearsome Wild Bunch line up. We are down to eight willing bodies. A couple of whom are mostly going through the motions at this point. A couple more of whom might as well be. This would be bad enough, but the other shoe falls just as I am rallying the troops to get out from under the surrounding shade trees to start warming up. Mike Pomeroy has had enough.

We’re doomed.

I am trying to be reasonable about the situation. It is hot. In the grand scheme of things, this one little game on this particular day doesn’t mean anything. It is certainly not worth anyone getting injured or, worse, heat stroke over.

I drop to my knees and beg Mike.

“Come on ...” [whine...whine...whine] “...we’re so close to actually winning a tournament...” [snivel...sob] “...look at what we have left to work with.”

We glance over at our line:

There’s Greg with the pony tail and glasses. He has managed to catch nearly 50 percent of the throws that have hit his hands. This is a good day. Next to him is Anthony. He can actually get open often and usually catches the disc. Unfortunately, his throw completion rate is hovering somewhere in the vicinity of 60 percent.

Jeff has some disc skills and some veteran savvy. His problem is getting his beer belly moving and then, changing direction without falling over. Mike Chico and Dan Handler are both solid. They have better throws than me and actually try on defense. The remaining couple of players fall somewhere in between.

I look at Mike, “Come on. We need you.”

He looks at me, “Listen, I would. I really wish I could. But I feel like shit. I’m trying to drink as much water as possible, but it’s almost gagging me. That can’t be too good a sign.” He has played out of his head for just about every point of the day. Many of those points were long, drawn out turnover fests.

As I stand up, looking down at Mike, I try to decide what the best course of action is. I turn and head out to the field. We’ll just give it everything we’ve got.

Frank walks across the field for the disc flip. His first words to me are encouraging. “Happy? Huh? Now we’re all late for our damn party.”

“Even or odd?” I ask, choosing to ignore him.

“You are such a shit. Why couldn’t you just have played us earlier?”

“What is your fucking problem?” I have just about had it. This is not the world championships for gods’ sake.

“Whatever, go back to your sorry team so we can beat you and get out of here.”

We lose the flip. They elect to receive.

On the line, I try to get someone else to cover barrel-chested Frank. He of one black glove on his throwing hand. I don’t really need that big galoot taking his frustrations out on me today.

No one else will take him. Fine. Fine. I’ll take him and run him until he pukes.

I sprint down the field and arrive a second after Frank claps the pull between his hands. I start the stall count and keep a half step off. For whatever else he is, Dan has told me that Frank can, and will, throw just about anything at any time. I get to about “three” when Frank rears back for a huge backhand huck. As I start to shift across to cut off the open angle, he lets fly. In his follow through, his backhand swings wide and crashes into my jaw.

A flash of white and a brief roaring noise in my head. I’m shocked not only by the impact but also in the sure knowledge that it was intentional. I try to shake it off as I step back.

Smirking at me, Frank leans forward and yells, “Foul!” right into my face. Then adds for good measure, “How do you like that you fucking pussy?”

The throw was complete for a score. Frank chuckles as he jogs down to the far end of the field. I’m still a little stunned by the whole exchange. I hold my right hand up to my cheek. There’s a little blood due to a scrape from something on the back of Frank’s Glove. All my teeth are in place, but my neck hurts a little bit. Then the adrenaline starts to take hold. We may lose, but I will do everything I can to smother Frank and his laughing scum teammates.

“What the FUCK was that all about?!” Mike Pomeroy, having witnessed the events from the sideline is outraged. He is hauling himself up by the tree trunk. He starts stiffly shaking out his legs as he sways out onto the field.

“Did I just see that? Did he just hit you? Did he really call you a ‘Fucking Pussy’?”

“That about sums it up.”

The rest of the Wild Bunch has gathered at our end of the field. The ones that saw it can’t believe it. The others are asking for details.

“Hey! You guys want a timeout or are you going to get on the line?” Frank yells. His team thinks it is quite witty.

The Wild Bunch, including me with a huge load of adrenaline coursing through my veins and a furious Mike Pomeroy, stalk to the line. Our hands go up. The hammer falls on the Hammer Heads.

I’m not going to lie and say we destroyed them. Also, it was no epic contest elevated to stratospheric heights by the force of wills battling for the dominion of Good or Evil. No, it was typically sloppy, with moments of minor brilliance. But we tried harder than we ever had.

Dan and Mike Chico play great. Anthony takes care of the disc by throwing mostly dumps and easy swings. Mike Pomeroy is simply a monster. He is catching everything whether it was thrown to him or not. On defense, I don’t know exactly how many blocks he had, but eventually he had to start poaching because they wouldn’t throw it anywhere near his man.

I had the exquisite joy of getting a couple blocks on Frank while shutting down many of his ridiculous spiral cuts that circle back and around the disc constantly. I also schooled him up and down the field mercilessly.

It all came down to next point wins. They are pulling to us. I don’t recall any particular words exchanged on the line. I think Dan said something along the lines of, “Let’s take our time, score this point, beat these fucks, and drink some beer.” We are all completely spent, but it was enough.

We slowly, agonizingly, push the disc down the field. Finally, there is an open receiver in the back of the end zone. The throw goes up, it looks good until a Hammer Head steps in front of it. With a quick swing, Frank gets the disc with no marker, he has a man sprinting down field, let’s it fly. In horror and desperation, I turn and start digging after the throw, “maybe it will float ... maybe ... something.” I just can’t allow us to lose. Not now. Not after this day.

I look down field, my cramping legs starting to give up. Mike Pomeroy, coming from nowhere, is leaping high over the complacent receiver. He comes down with the interception. With a quick flick, it is in Mike Chico’s hands. He throws a rocket of a forehand to young James five yards from the goal line. Bobbling it, James cradles the disc as he sinks to his knees to secure the catch. The stall count is mounting. There is absolute chaos in the endzone. I am staggering towards the disc from 25 yards away screaming, “Dump!” James has set the wrong foot as a pivot. He is desperately swaying back and forth, both hands on the disc as the marker presses, “Eight ... Nine ...” James let’s fly with a sky-high blade as he falls backwards.

I can still see the slow motion arc of that dying quail of a throw. It is knifing down towards a pack of at least five players all jostling for position in the endzone. I am sickened by the thought of the moment to follow. As all seems lost, I see a single hand rising above the crowd. There is a macrame bracelet on it. The disc punches into the palm and sticks like it is rooted there forever. The mass of swarming bodies collapses. At its center is ponytailed Greg, disc held aloft in a mixture of jubilation and disbelief. The dawning smile on his face is making me laugh as we mob him.

Mike Pomeroy crumbled at mid-field right after he saw the score. The rest of us are slapping Greg on the back and screaming in delicious victory. The Hammer Heads and Frank Hugenard walk off quickly. Now they can finally get to their party. I don’t have enough energy left to expend any on them.

For a couple hours after that game, we all sat around and drank cold beer and ate potato chips while laughing and recalling how great we actually weren’t. Mike Pomeroy began vomiting about 5 minutes after the game. We put ice on his head and gave him water, refusing to let him have any beer. That was the extent of our medical attention.

As the evening began to settle, cooling off the air, our players started heading off home. My head was swimming from a combination of too little food, too much beer, and the sweet taste of unexpected victory. Mike started coming around and we started laughing about various moments from the day. We drove off exhausted, buzzed and happy.

It has always been one of the greatest victories throughout my many years of playing.