Originally wrote this in October. The difficulty in writing and not posting is that it’s difficult to remember exactly how you felt when you wrote the original post. I apologize if things seem disjointed.
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Like many current ultimate players, I found the sport as a freshman in college. After four years of either playing basketball or running cross in high school, I knew I would feel lost without the discipline, structure, and camaraderie of team sports. (I also knew I would gain a lot of weight. *foghorn*) A friendly game of catch after a pickup basketball game pointed me in the right direction, and “the rest is history”.
The allure of the sport for me as a young player was two-fold: first, I was just so bad at it. I couldn’t stand how badly I sucked. I wasn’t willing to stop until I was good, better, and best at it. Second, it felt so accessible. I remember the pure exhilaration of improving from Monday afternoon to Tuesday afternoon. I saw my work paying off in ways I didn’t see it paying off in cross or basketball, not to mention my ceiling for improvement was entirely different than cross or basketball. My game improved year after year, and my playing time and contributions grew accordingly. As I continued to play, I learned that playing competitively beyond college was a real opportunity for me.
When I first realized that I might be able to play after college, I had a giddy first grader’s thought — “I might get to play with So-And-So!” Admittedly, there’s something a little childish but also completely wonderful about the prospect of one day playing with your heroes, the people you look up to and have modeled your game after. As I’ve gotten older and gone around the block once or twice, a little bit of that luster has worn off — I don’t shit my pants anymore when I see who I’m lining up against — but that respect I have for the players I’ve looked up to for all these years has remained unchanged. I look up to them for their talent and what they’re able to do on the field, obviously, but I’m also really impressed and motivated by their work ethic and the way they approach the game. Ultimately, my goal is to learn how to work that hard and how to play the game at a high level.
Unforch, my fear as I “get older” is that my window to compete at a high level is closing rapidly. Each year, I feel like I’m just slipping further and further away from that, and it gets harder and harder to do what I want to do. But I guess that’s what makes the chase so sweet.
I used to think about quitting ultimate because I don’t love it anymore, because I don’t have that passion or that fire within me anymore. But that’s not true. I’ve always loved the game. I’ve always loved to compete, in any way, shape, or form. I appreciate ultimate in an entirely different way now. When I think about hanging up the cleats now, it’s because I’m getting older, and I’m finding that I’m having a lot of difficulty adapting to the changes necessary to continually get better.
The new young thangs (believe it or not, “thangs” was probably the least awkward word I came up with in this slot *foghorn* *foghorn*) are faster, more athletic, and more well-versed in the game than I am. The players and the game just keep progressing that way — faster, more athletic, more things I’m not. My body’s not as resilient anymore. IT TOOK ME FIVE YEARS TO LEARN HOW TO THROW UPFIELD. (But really it’s mostly about my body, probably.)
I know that injuries are a part of any sport, and this one is no exception. I’ve never had a serious or season-ending injury, and I’m thankful for that. But the time and work it took to rehab from my ankle injury (and the pain I’m still in now) have really scared me into thinking long and hard about how much longer I’m willing to put myself at risk for that kind of thing. I had yet another concussion at the end of this season, and having to deal again with the off-the-field problems it has brought me has had me thinking really seriously about the risk I’m taking. (Not to mention Dave Duerson was on the front page of the Trib the other day and it spooked me.)
To be honest, I’m not afraid of the work. Well, I’m a little bit afraid of it. But that’s the kind of fear that I relish in. It is a fear I believe I can manage and conquer from within. It’s all about what I do about it, how I react to it. But I’m truly afraid of that thing I feel at the end of every season, when my expectations haven’t been met, and we’re closing with yet another painful loss, and more “could’ve” thoughts start to litter my brain. That fear I can’t really do anything about. I can work and give everything I have, and someone might still beat me. My team might still lose. There are things out of my control in this equation. At the end of every season, the same terrifying, depressing thought pops into my head.
I may never end my season in Sarasota.
Seeing that sentence “in print” hurt a lot more than just seeing it in my head.
In college, I got by with a puffed out chest and a whole lot of blissful ignorance. I didn’t know that I wasn’t good enough to be carrying myself the way I did, and the false bravado scared people off before my game ever did. But the club game is better. It’s faster, stronger, smarter, and more skilled, and it evolves continuously as new players breathe new life into the game.
In college, I got by with a puffed out chest and a whole lot of blissful ignorance. I didn’t know that I wasn’t good enough to be carrying myself the way I did, and the false bravado scared people off before my game ever did. But the club game is better. It’s faster, stronger, smarter, and more skilled, and it evolves continuously as new players breathe new life into the game.
I can always change the way I work and practice, and how hard I’m working, but sometimes I fear like that might not be enough. I’m not particularly athletically gifted, nor am I extraordinarily skilled in any facet of the game. I don’t have the throws to be a handler, and I’m too short and not nearly fast enough to be a receiver. I’m like a basketball tweener. Don’t have the handles to play point, but not big enough to be a two guard. I think my speed puts me in the middle of the pack — fast enough half the time, nothing special the other half of the time. But I’m so hungry. And I have a decent work ethic. I have a lot of pride. What’s difficult is reconciling my realistic thoughts about my game and what I’m capable of doing, with my drive, all the unrealistic things I believe, and all the out-of-reach things I want. That’s something I haven’t figured out quite yet.
I haven’t really thought all this through, yet. I feel like this post is starting to get sloppy, spiraling into all the crazy mess that is also happening in my head. There are times when I feel like I’m close to getting to where I want to go, or at least figuring out what it is I need to do to get there, and other times I feel like it’s something I might never achieve. The scary realization that I voiced earlier — that I’m doomed to mediocre Regional finishes for the rest of my career — sometimes makes me want to lower my expectations a little so Octobers don’t sting so much. And yet there’s something inside that just won’t let me. It’s something I’ve always wanted, and not to sound ridiculous/gross, but the thought that I might not get there sometimes absolutely thrills me. The allure now is that the game — and greatness — is so hard. With old age and real life time constraints and the law of diminishing returns and all that, getting better gets harder and harder. I appreciate that now. I appreciate how difficult this is, and how hard it forces me to work to see even marginal gains. I appreciate how fleeting my opportunities are. I appreciate that there is a healthy sense of terror and fear involved. It’s just another thing that makes me hungrier. The game intrigued me because it seemed “easy enough”, and it hooked me because it’s actually so difficult. It reminds me of what Kelly and I were talking about mid-season last year — that it’s the things that scare us the most that are the most worth doing.
Relentless, onwards and upwards…