Learning to Walk

The spring of 1989 saw a reorganization of the team formerly known as El Lunche. It seemed many of the crusty veterans from the previous year didn’t have the drive or the desire to begin their ultimate season in April. This was when “The Kids” would have their chance. The team was still Dan Harrington’s, but he had ceded many of the strategic and personnel decisions to others - one of whom was Bart Bruner.

Bart, or as he was more commonly known, Barney, had a big time background in the sport. He had won Nationals with the Flying Circus in 1985, had subsequently moved to Santa Barbara and played with the mighty Condors for a few years. Having returned to the Bay Area, he fell victim to the cliquish and petty politics that often permeates many big city ultimate scenes. The reigning Bay Area power, Tsunami, wouldn’t give him a look. He had rubbed some - many - people the wrong way. Those people happened to be making the roster decisions on the team of choice.

Therefore, Barney was taking a different path. Unlike Dan Harrington, he was serious and focused and he had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He was trying to build a team up from scratch. A team that would consist of mostly young guns with a few wily vets. A team to beat the big boys with a bunch of unknowns or the overlooked.

He was hoping this would be that team. We had the proper starting ingredients. A slew of raw newcomers and green college kids, a few big throwing veterans with some big game experience, and a team-wide desire to have fun. We even had a name. We were now officially “The Boot.” The moniker was homage to the fact that just about everyone on the team had been cut or denied by another team. We were the booted, the leftovers, the dregs. We were also pretty fired up to prove them all wrong.

We entered the spring tourneys with an evolving roster. Even so, our pecking order in the competitive Bay Area ultimate scene soon became established. We were slightly better than the majority of teams, but we were a measurable step down from East Bay, who were themselves a large step down from Tsunami.

Meanwhile, a small tremor could be felt in San Francisco - and neither the Ultimate scene, nor the tourney party scene would ever be the same. The Worm had arrived from Chico State.

I had recognized him at a few pick-up games in Golden Gate park. He was his usual dirty, grass-stained self even after these casual Sunday gatherings.

“This guy’s career isn’t going to last long,” I thought to myself, “but he sure is a great defender right now.”

I tried to convince him that he should play for us, play for The Boot. He was torn. His closest friends and former Chico State players in the Bay Area had cobbled together a team. They couldn’t offer quite the level of competitiveness that we could, but they could easily out-drink any other team ... possibly in the country. I tried to appeal to his competitive nature. He wasn’t swayed. He decided to stick with his homeboys in his new city.

The Boot went to the Santa Barbara Classic on Memorial Day weekend. We were hoping to introduce ourselves to the some of the other west coast teams. We figured this would be our first taste of how we stacked up against the competition that we would see in the fall at Regionals.

We competed. We won the games we should have, we lost a couple of close games against teams that were expected to beat us. We eventually bowed out in the quarterfinals losing to the imposing squad of attitude, swagger, and talent that was the LA Iguana.

Worm’s team, Bitch and Moan, was in the B bracket. Here are some significant facts about that team:

-They had a small roster on Saturday morning of maybe 12 players, 9 of whom had played a competitive tourney before.

-They won the party by a wide margin on Saturday night, receiving the full spectrum from accolades to death threats by the gathered and departing crowd.

-They didn’t come close to losing a Boat Race.

-Their Saturday night heroics resulted in a measurably smaller roster on Sunday, with at least one possible alcohol poisoning cutting into their numbers.

After we lost in the quarters, I wandered over to see how Bitch and Moan was doing. They were scrambling for their lives in the B semis. Carried by Worm’s defense and Mike Chico’s throws, they held their slim lead all the way to the end.

[On a funny side note, Mike Chico reminds me of an odd but common phenomenon in ultimate - players that are better known by their nicknames than their real names. I’m not talking about the difference between people easily identifying Jerome Betis by his nickname “The Bus”. I’m talking about playing a sport, traveling, eating, and practically living with people whose real names you don’t know for months, years, or even ... ever. It was about a year and a half after meeting Mike Chico that I realized his real name was Mike Kerhin. That “Chico” came from his alumni status from that bastion of scholarly (and brewski) achievement - Chico State. I didn’t even think twice about it. What I mistook for his vaguely hispanic look was actually his slavic ancestry. What did a kid from Connecticut via St. Louis know about such things?

Think that’s bad? I know of one player, who shall remain nameless, that played on the same team as Worm for three years before he realized that his name was Tom. The exchange went something like:

Me: That sure was a hell of a block by Tom at the end of that last game.

Him: Who?

Me: Tom.

Him: Tom? Is there a Tom on the team?

Me: (incredulous) Tom Glass ... Worm?

Him: Oohh, Worm. Yeah, that was a sick block. (pause) His name is really Tom?

Me: You’ve been on his team for three years and you didn’t even think he might have another name besides Worm!?!

[Side note within a side note: It was actually about this time that I acquired my semi-nickname ... Billy. It’s all Dan Harrington’s fault. I had been known as Billy all through childhood. When, at the end of seventh grade, my family moved from Northern California to Connecticut, I made the decision to rid myself of the hated diminutive form of my name. Starting the beginning of eighth grade, introducing myself to a whole new state of people, I was officially Bill. And it stayed that way. Until I moved back to California and at the age of 24, Dan Harrington decided that he liked saying Billy more than just Bill. That was the end of that.]]

Anyway ... where was I? Oh yeah, Bitch and Moan staggering into the finals of the B bracket of the Santa Barbara Classic. I chose to watch for a few reasons. One, the A division finals were being played two fields over. But it was yet another in a seemingly endless string of finals meetings between Tsunami and Iguana. Athletic contests of will and pride frequently marred by tit-for-tat calls and minutes-long arguments. I didn’t have the stomach for sitting through that again.

Besides, Bitch and Moan reminded me so much of that scrappy old Wild Bunch team trying to finish out a string of playing way over their heads for just one more glorious victory.

My final reason for watching their game was as an academic exercise. Worm’s elbow had become a fascinating study in biology and pain management. It had become so swollen from repeated bashings on the unforgiving fields that he had, at first, thrown a small wrist band over it to cushion the inevitable, continued abuse to come. The wrist band had given way to a large elbow pad, but at this point, at the end of the weekend, it wasn’t even marginally containing the hanging fluid sack that was once his elbow. It was like looking at national geographic pictures of africans suffering from Elephantiasis. It was so large and floppy, that it did not even vaguely resemble a human body part. Certainly not a working elbow joint. It was both disgusting and fascinating. Luckily, it was on his left arm (or it was his left arm). This meant that neither his throws nor his boat racing had been significantly impaired. I don’t recall anyone asking if it hurt. I think everyone rightly assumed it did. It was more like watching a monk flogging his own back as Worm launched for yet another layout block, landing left arm first.

Bitch and Moan limped to the fields for the B finals. I was their waterboy and cheering section. I watched as they tried to negotiate with their competitors - Albuquerque. The offer was this: agree to a draw and both teams would split both the winner’s and loser’s purse. I think it was $200 and two cases of good beer for the winners, $100 and a case of mediocre beer for the losers. Split evenly, they reasoned, both teams would have a decent field party.

Albuquerque wasn’t buying it. They looked at the remains of the Bitch and Moan team, they looked at their own burly, testosterone filled teammates, they went for it all. They proposed winner take all, loser gets nothing. I don’t know if it was the baiting and in-your-face call-out or if it was the prospect of that much beer, but Bitch and Moan agreed.

And, of course they won. It wasn’t easy or pretty, but they won. The usual recipe: heroics from unlikely sources, stepping up and beyond for a few key players. Worm’s elbow actually deflated slightly by the ragged end of the game. I think most of the gallons of fluid had been forced through repeated blows to permeate the rest of his body. It was leaking out of the open gashes in his knees, sides, and head. Yes, scrapes along his head.

I remember the repeated cries from the Albuquerque players:

Warning: “Don’t throw it near that guy!”

Remonstrating: “What is wrong with you!?! I don’t care if the receiver seems to be open by 10 yards! Don’t Throw It!!”

Mumbling: “He’s got to take a sub at some point. Doesn’t he?”

The Bitch and Moan players rushed the field ... or more correctly, they rushed towards the tournament director that had the beer and prize money. Three cases of beer and $300. These same guys that probably had never felt comfortable in an algebra class had immediately done the higher mathematics to solve the equation: 300 hundred dollars = lots of good beer = lots and lots of bad beer. In an amazing display of organization and teamwork, they dispatched beer runners, food runners and ice runners. Within moments of sitting back to bask in their improbable success, they had a riotous crowd clamoring for their growing riches of cold beer and variety of muchies. Their victory party started there and didn’t end until ... I don’t even know when. Let’s just say they were well aware that Monday was a holiday and no more games were scheduled.

The cruel Monday morning light greeted the bloodshot eyes and pounding heads of Mike Chico and Worm. I, having much less to celebrate, was feeling healthier, more clear-headed, more awake, and generally less satisfied. Good thing I was doing the driving back up to San Francisco, 5 and a half hours away.

The drive down had been relatively benign. I didn’t really know either Mike or Tom, but they certainly knew each other from their days at Chico State. We exchanged casual get-to-know-you kind of questions and answers. Those two mixed it up with a few verbal jabs here and there, but we were all tired and the late night drive was generally quiet.

The drive back up was another matter. Worm and Chico got into the chapping and story-telling immediately. Their hangovers seemed to add a steely edge to the proceedings. They were brutal, pulling no punches. It was all in fun - but brutal none the less. I was lucky. They didn’t know me well enough to include me in the bloodshed.

Then we hit the traffic jam.

We were crawling north along 101 outside of San Jose. We were about seven hours into our 5 and a half hour trip. We were weary and depressed about re-entry into tomorrow’s work day. Somehow, the conversation had reached a comparatively thoughtful equilibrium. I think the topic was along the lines of dating prospects and relative effectiveness in different approaches for different types of women. In the midst of down-shifting for the three thousandth time in the last eight miles, I slipped up.

“You know, living in the Castro for the past couple of years has changed my perspective on some things. I mean, having guys blatantly and aggressively hit on you is not all that fun. Now I have an idea of what it might be like to be a good looking woman.”

The second before I uttered these words, I would have bet large sums of money that both Tom and Mike would be asleep within the next two minutes. Within microseconds of the last syllable of “woman” passing my lips, their ears perked up and their eyes instantly glistened. I believe they actually began salivating.

Mike was first out of the blocks, “Soooo ... now you know what it’s like to be a bea-UTIFUL woman, huh?”

Worm not far behind with, “That’s got to be tough, I mean how many times can you say, ‘I’ve already got a drink - thank you!’”

This being my first time in the cross-hairs, I made the fatal mistake of all newbie chappies - I tried to fight it. “That’s not what I said...”

“You must get sick of hearing guys beseeching, ‘Oh god! Don’t let me go blind now!’ as you walk by.” Worm is practically stumbling over himself to get the chaps out faster than Chico.

I’m squirming now, “But I ...”

“‘Don’t pinch me if I’m dreaming,’” Chico is crowing,”’Lord, I’ve done gone to heaven and I don’t wanna leave.’”

Worm immediately following with, “So, tell us. What exactly is it like being a drop dead GORGEOUS, bombshell of a woman?”

Now it’s not so funny. “Listen, I never said I was ...”

“Oh, don’t get all bashful on us now. What’s it like having guys constantly trying to pinch your ass and ask for your number?”

It went on. And on. And on. It was the most miserable two hours of traffic I have ever lived through. When ever they seemed to have lost momentum, when they had slowed down and not said anything for a minute or two, I thought I was finally off the hook. Then some song would come on the radio. Or spotting some woman in a nearby car would once again spur them on. Any excuse to re-enter the fray.

My ability to take a chap was forged in the hellish fires of that ride home. Never forget: One little slip-up is all it takes sometimes.