Team USA

I was aware of some dim chatter a couple of months ago about how the UPA should hold try-outs for choosing Team USA this year, instead of simply hand-selecting the team as they did in 2005.  The Huddle posted a Feature about it, but timing -- it appeared just before Club Championships -- prevented it from attracting my attention.  Later, Chicken was chirping in my ear about, how he was going to apply to try-out, if they did indeed hold try-outs.  It was his talk that got me thinking, dreaming...would I even stand a chance at getting invited to try-out?

Well, once in a while, dreams line up with reality.

An e-mail went out in late December to team captains, asking them to pass along the application link for Team USA.  I dutifully clicked "Forward"... and then decided to indulge my fantasy and took a closer look at the whole thing.  

The application was lengthy: Who have you played for?  How have they done?  What is your role on & off the field?  What are your strengths?  Weaknesses?  What does Spirit mean to you?  etc etc.   The process would be costly: Participants are to fly themselves to the try-out weekend; pay a $125 try-out camp fee; and find housing & transportation on their own.  But the experience...priceless.  I decided I had nothing to lose, except a little dignity from the person who read my application and got a good chuckle out of it.

The list of try-outs was to be announced Jan 22.  The problem is, the UPA is based in Boulder, CO -- in Mountain Standard Time, and I live in Eastern Standard Time.  So when I left lab & internet access for the day around 6pm, they still hadn't made any announcement.  I decided I would simply check in the morning, and headed to the gym, from which I went straight to Annika's 30th b-day party.

I wished her a happy birthday upon entering; she countered with a congratulations.  I stared at her, befuddled.  She said, "Oh.  You haven't heard yet.  You'd better go find Chicken."  I looked around for him, and finally caught his eye.  He smiled.  I said, "So?"  He said, "Yeah."  And we did a shot. (He's been invited to try-out, too -- although he's probably less surprised and nervous than I.)

Despite my excitement, I was immediately nervous and became moreso when I finally looked at the list of who else had been invited.  The way I describe it to non-Ultimate players is that this list contains the Michael Jordans, the Mia Hamms, the Sidney Crosby's of Ultimate...and me.  I don't feel like I belong.  I am afraid of making a fool of myself.

I can think of several reasons why I was invited to try-out -- of why this is a clear oversight and gross mistake on the part of the UPA.  First and foremost, I play Mixed.  They wanted to throw the Mixed Division a couple of bones, give us some representation at try-outs so we don't complain too loudly.  And I was one of few Mixed players deluded enough to think I had a chance.  Secondly, you had to apply to be invited -- it wasn't like they actually knew who I was and sought me out.  The application process itself was likely self-selecting, detering very talented but extremely busy players from putting their name in the mix.  The numbers posted to the website indicate that 51 females applied and 35 were invited.  So really, I'm only better than 16 other women.  Thirdly...don't they mean the *other* Kendra Frederick??

Then I stop and think that my first line of reasoning demeans the other mixed players invited to try-out. James Kennedy & Sarah Megyesi from Flycoons; the Smith brothers from Mischief; Raha from AMP; and Slow White's very own Miller, Adrienne & Rusty.  (Teddy & Lauren Casey could be added to this list but they now play for very successful single-gender teams, so aren't "pure" Mixed players).   And then I realize that a lot of the other players probably aren't thinking they are better than only 16 other players (or 40 for the men).  They're probably thinking that they are one of the top 35 (or 45) players in the country.

This takes me away from the edge, but not off the cliff, of complete nervous breakdown.  I recognize that I've contributed to Slow White's success, and that Slow White has been successful. I can hesistantly admit I'm good...but still don't believe I'm *that* good.

But, I've decided to make the most of this.  I am proud of myself for applying in the first place.  As I said, there were a lot of people who probalby didn't even bother to apply, so initiative is one thing I've got going for me.  I've always wondered how I'd stack up in Women's; this will be chance to play against the best women in Ultimate on "my turf" -- Mixed. The experience will undoubtedly open my eyes to another level of the game and what I can continue to work on. It's motivating unlike nothing else, so I'll be in great shape going into the season.  And this finally gives legitimacy to my playing Ultimate (and dedicating so much time & energy to it) in the eyes of the non-Ultimate players in my life -- people in lab, my family, etc. 

I have two goals for the try-out: (1) Do one good thing.  One nice D, one nice catch, one nice throw.  Any of the above.  One.  (2) Have the most fun out of anyone there.  Fuck being nervous.  Fuck being shy.  Fuck worrying or getting in my own head.   I play Ultimate to have fun, and fun is what I will be having. 

I am not going to let it go to my head, nor will I let it get in my head.  The chance to try-out doesn't suddenly mean that I am a perfect Ultimate player who doesn't make mistakes. I can still take chances, push myself to grow & learn -- and mistakes are a part of that process.  I will allow myself this.  I can't let myself get bogged down in what other people think, "She made it?!  If she made it, I could have made it.  I just didn't bother applying."  "She got invited to try-out for Team USA and she can't even throw flick?!"  Yeah.  Let's just not go there.

Lei Out 2009

Lei Out 2009 was perhaps one of the most fun tournaments I've ever experienced, despite the playing actually not being that fun.  I dropped the disc more times in one day than I dropped it all of last year.  I don't know what was going on with me.  But, aside from my lackluster playing, I still walked away from the weekend with a huge smile on my (newly tanned) face.

Where in the world will Kendra & Chicken lay-over?

It started in the Hartford airport.  Our flight was delayed enough that we risked not making our connection in Cincinnati, which was the last flight out to L.A.  The kind woman behing the counter, contemplated sending us through Atlanta or JFK instead, before she glanced over at the gate boarding next to us, and yelled, "Sue!  Don't close the door!"  Within 30 sec, we were ticketed and on our way to Orlando.  

The hotel is where??

I spent Thursday night with Alice Chen & Jill Hutchinson in Hermosa Beach.  On Friday, Chicken's friend graciously dropped us off at our hotel in Santa Monica.  I thought I'd booked us at the same place we were last year -- a mere 3 blocks from the Pier.  Nope...keep driving...farther...couple more blocks...instead of being on the water, we were 20 blocks inland.  I am very upset and cancel the 2nd night for both rooms, figuring we'll make other plans for Saturday night.

Enter alcohol and the clown car

Skip, Frank/Devin, and Anne Bosscher meet us at the hotel, and we all walk 20 blocks to the 3rd street promenade to find some food.  Mexican it is!  I order a double-margarita, then another.  Brown, Tyson, Megan, and Jessi Witt eventually find their way to us.  Introductions are made, and rounds of shots are ordered.  The time comes to head back to the hotel, and Skip, who probably regretted his offer later, suggested we all pile into the cargo van he and Frank had driven down from Seattle, full of Cultimate supplies, including three 42-inch flat screen TVs.  A game of human jenga ensues, and we fill every person-sized crevice with a body.  Megan drives, as she is apparently the only one sober enough to do so.  The parking garage of the hotel is underground, replete with cement pillars lining every other parking spot.  Megan misjudged the corner...and slammed the side of the van into a pillar, leaving streaks of yellow paint on the white side.  No good deed goes unpunished.

More drinking in the hotel room.  Tyson gets ice and dumps it all over the floor.  Skip decides to wrestle me; I don't know who won, but I had more bruises, carpet burns, and bite marks...so he probably did.  The silent Chris Rupp shows up and probably wonders what he's gotten himself into.  We retire to bed late/early.  Brown spoons me and Chicken briefly.

Enter the Sandking

We got a late start, as we didn't account for how long it would take to cram the 10 people we had back into the clown car, and therefore didn't have time to stop for breakfast.  Alex Snyder proves to be a great teammate, bringing us McDonalds.  Jodi Dozono and Mike Namkung meet us at the fields; Mike proves to be unaffected by the sand, as he makes play after play, catch after catch, scores goal after goal.  My catching is off; I try to blame the shots from the night before, but I run out of excuses.  I take a nap in the shade during our bye, then go find people. Hammer, Lauren Casey, Lori, McT, Margo, Claire Mowbry, Dana Gerrits, Miller, Bethany, Kegan & Martha, KB, and Kari DeLeeuw are just some of the people I see. We win all our games rather handily, despite my best efforts to not catch things.

Hotel roullette

The new plan for Saturday had been to stay at Frank/Devin's aunt's apartment, or something, but it turns out we can't all stay there.  Tyson steps up with his iPhone, and makes reservations at a one-star motel "about 2 miles from the beach".  We pile into the van & the back of Mike's truck and head out there.  I swear we drove 10 miles -- in any case, it was more than 2.  The place is a dump.  The rooms are barely bigger than the solitary bed in each, which is not the queen as advertised, and the floor is tile.  We try to get a refund, but not before we take "shits & showers".  As we discuss bailing on the place and reserving a suite downtown for $250 that Jessi subsequently finds, a truck pulls into the parking lots and lumbers towards us.  On the side, in faded paint, reads "Pick Your Tool".  The driver's door opens.  Three empty beer cans tumble out, followed by the driver, who wobbles as he stoops down to pick up the cans.  With that, we are decided: get the hell out of here and head to the Georgian.

From ghetto to pimp

The Georgian is on Ocean Drive, just across from the pedestrian bridge.  The Georgian is 4-star. The Georgian has a suite.  The Georgian has valet parking.  The Georgian is carpeted.  The Georgian is my new favorite place in Santa Monica.  Stumbling distance to/from the party & beach.  It was day to the Pavilion Motel's night.  We are all happy with our decision.  Pre-gaming ensues.  Chicken tries to teach us the Soljda Boy dance ("Superman that ho!").  

Rule #1: never run out of Colt. 45

Colt .45 is a sponsor of the tournament, and I get handed two tall boys of the stuff upon entering. I see Mia, Steffi, Allison.  I find Tucker, and spend most of the night talking with him.  Seth Wiggins says hi, and that we need Fetch.  I say I saw Cody?; he says Cody is a poor-man's Fetch.  Not much dancing for me.  A lot of hanging out, and drinking.  I don't remember the walk home very well.  I do remember stopping for ice cream (mint chocolate chip).  I apparently borrowed Tucker's pull-over, and fell into a bush.  Good times.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

I wake up with scratches I don't remember (from the bush).  Breakfast.  More food-squirelling.  We win our first game, and are up 7-4 in our second...before the wheels fall off and we lose to Car Bomb, 8-11.  Suck.  A dip in the ocean, some socializing.  I watch/heckle the shit-show that was the Dragon J vs. Marmalade consolation game.  I am introduced to warm grape Four. Then we play Schtick in the sand.  So. Much. Fun.  I am good at defense, but not offense.  Lunch.  Back to the fields.  We missed the final, but heard it wasn't that good.  Say hello/good-bye to Matt Welsh, BVH, Webster.  We invent a new game: Sandal Clash.  We barely get Frank/Devin to the airport on time.  I decide to rent a hotel room near the airport, as I am too exhausted to find anyone else to hang out with.  Anne, Chris, Chicken, & Skip come shower, then we meet Chicken's friend for dinner.  Anne & Chris get on their plane; Skip & I pass out in the room, exhausted from much sun, sand, fun, & drinking.