How does your brain decide which memories it keeps most safely for you? What determines which memories live most vividly in our memory? What makes the colors so rich? What makes you feel that moment and that memory all over again? What makes your heart rate rise, what is it that makes you cry? (Everything, apparently, if it’s me we’re talking about.) I’m putting this here for safekeeping.
I remember being nine years old watching the Bulls play the Jazz on the little 12″ TV that my dad bought for me. I was in the basement, sweating up a storm. It was before we remodeled the house, so we still had the grungy orange tiles, the yellowing wooden wall panels. It was still kinda dim and creepy down there, but my mom was on the computer in our makeshift basement office, and my dad was sitting on the fifty year old janky, crusty brown/gray couch (my parents apparently don’t know anything about interior decorating) behind me (I was standing for the entirety of the game). I remember Michael Jordan stealing the ball from Karl Malone, and then I remember Byron Russell falling (Michael pushed him? What?), and then my heart stopped like it did the last time, with Steve Kerr<3. Five point two seconds, and Michael holding his follow through. I mimicked him after the ball swished through the basket. When John Stockton missed his three point attempt, I jumped up and knocked a ceiling board loose with my fist. I was so. hype. I can’t wait until the day I get to feel that again.
I remember the winter of my sophomore year. After probably weeks of sleeping and feeling sorry for myself and not eating (this is how you know I was truly not myself), I dragged myself out of bed and I went on a run. I don’t remember how far I went. I was running down Archer, towards home, and all of a sudden I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I was still far from home, but I began to sprint. The cold was ravaging my lungs, and I wasn’t wearing gloves so I could feel my fists hardening as I clenched them tighter. I could hardly see. My earbuds were pounding, and I was willing myself to go faster and faster as the song continued to build (if you try running the maze of your lies, it’s too hard to save if you’ve thrown out everyone). You know how they say that your entire life flashes before your eyes when you’re dying? All the memories and moments I cherished from my failed trainwreck of a relationship were flashing before my eyes as I realized that it was dying and there was nothing I could do to save it. I sprinted home and threw up on my lawn (it was gross).
Do you know that feeling when you feel like you have zero idea what you’re doing on a field? Like, none? Like you had never played before, ever in life? I remember warming up for my very first game at Worlds this summer. We were playing Team Canada, the top ranked mixed team in the world. We had watched them DISMANTLE Finland in the showcase game the night previous. I even made a bet with my teammate that I would throw a Callahan against Canada. It was our first game of the tournament, which took place at like, 2pm on the first day of real games. I hate that — you spend all morning and afternoon practicing, warming up, watching other teams play, hyping yourself up. I had just injured my knee a few months previous. I hadn’t played ultimate in about a year (read: I got wild fat and was out of shape). It was terrifying. I was all adrenaline during warmups. I sprinted for EVERYTHING. We were doing a cut-to drill, and I’m making my in-cut FULL SPEED, like someone had just announced free Harold’s or wieners or something. The flick was way behind me. Without thinking, I put on the brakes and tried to lay out in the direction opposite of my momentum. It was kind of hilarious, because instead of sliding it out gracefully, I just landed straight down, with an actual thud. (That’s kind of how the rest of my afternoon went, actually, lolslawlslulz.) I don’t remember which line I played on. I remember handling a lot with Alex and Ken. The first time I threw the disc, it was a turnover (and it was the exact kind of turnover that Jon had warned me about at practice that morning, too, lols but also -____-). I didn’t throw a Callahan that game, but I don’t think I did anything of productive value, either. I ran around a lot, I remember that. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. I just ran and ran and ran, believing that if it looked like I was trying and it looked like I was doing something, nobody would notice that I sucked a baker’s dozen you-know-what’s. And the whole time I was running, I thought to myself, “What the actual fuck am I even doing here?” Humbling for sure.
I remember playing against Germany at the same tournament. It was a must-win to play into pre-quarters. It was really, really overcast. We were playing on one of the isolated turf fields. Germany approached us before the game and told us that they wanted to do the National Anthems, which we all thought would be pretty cool. Of course, I only know a few of the words of the Chinese National Anthem. The teams lined up across from each other, arms around our teammates’ shoulders. I was definitely standing with Helen, Yingdan, and Puma to my left. I think Guy or Robin was on my right, maybe? I was lucky to be surrounded by people who actually knew the joint; I lipsync-ed pretty much the entire song and Helen laughed at me the whole time. I might have shouted the only part I knew. It was goofy as hell, but the moment made me feel proud, and it made me smile. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to understanding what athletes feel and what they think about when they play the National Anthem before games.
This is what inspired this post, actually. I woke up this morning with my heart pounding, and I had sweat through my pajamas (sadly this is not an uncommon occurrence #wildsweaty). I had a dream about running through the Armory. My most favorite conditioning workout of all time (understand that I hate everything and anything that has to do with running -___-) is our stairs workout. The Armory is a rectangular building. We would start at one set of stairs, run up to the third or fourth floor, and out into a hallway. Down the hallway (This is what you see in the picture, that wall above the track with all the banners? There are windows in between the banners, and I would always look down through them, and wish I was playing or throwing in the middle blue section instead of running my guts out) and down another set of stairs. Down that hallway to another set of stairs. Up that one to the third or fourth floor, and down another long hallway. Down the stairs, down the first floor hallway, and back to the set of stairs we started with. I could never remember which floor I was supposed to get off at, and I could never ever keep count of how many laps we had done. It was a misleading exercise. On the track, out in the open with everybody looking, you feel like you can’t slack off, you can’t ease up off the gas, ever. For stairs, Goose or Cathy would stand in the first floor hallway and keep count of our laps, so they’d only see us once every lap. You almost believe that you can take it easy up or down the stairs, or maybe up in the hallways when no one can see you. But this is where you learn that you don’t push yourself and you don’t work hard for Coach. You kill yourself and you push yourself to your limits for your teammates, who are sprinting the entire workout. You don’t want to get passed. You want to catch the group or the person in front of you, always. I was always, always trying to catch up to Peach. I remember my ears pounding, breathing so hard out of my mouth, my eyesight blurring, my head aching, chasing Peach down the hallways with everything in me. I always thought my heart was going to explode. I remember the time Yen visited and told me that she would kiss me on the lips if I beat Claire (Clurious beat me by a hair at the finish line ;___;). It was always hot and stuffy in the stairwells. I was always afraid I was going to fall up and lose my teeth, or fall down and look wild stupid. The hallways were my favorite. We would flat out sprint those like we were running the 100m at the Olympics. We deadass thought we were at the Olympics, I feel like. The hallways on the ground floor were the best because the cold air would hit you like a blast, and it felt almost comfortable for about ten seconds. And then you went back to choking on recycled air in the stairways. Was the lighting always so sinister? Was it always so dimly orange, or was that just me? By the end of it, I was always running with my eyes almost closed. We’d sprint out the end of that hallway, and doubled over, we would wait for the rest of our teammates. I loved that. I loved clapping and cheering and forming a high five line for our teammates coming in and finishing. That was the best part.
I loathed — I mean absolutely abhorred, hated with every fiber of my being — the Armory. But it has a very fond place in my memory. (Do I actually love the place?) It can be a very beautiful place, when you’re not standing over one of those red buckets vomiting and also crying. (MaryKim once spit on top of the can, instead of in it -___-)
And I still don’t really have words for this.
(And yes, the post title is inspired by Taylor Swift.)