For me, the best part about qualifying for Nationals has always been the opportunity to spend a few more weeks with my team. I have extremely fond memories of those precious extra moments earned at both Cal and Texas, (and with Showdown and Molly Brown), and these memories are perhaps sharpened by the heartbreak of the seasons sandwiched in between where I lost three games-to-go in two years. I share some of the heartache of losing that third game here. Endings are incredibly difficult, especially when they happen sooner than we’d hope.
When I talk about my sport, I struggle to decide what to call it: ultimate or Frisbee? The latter dredges up images of dogs chasing plastic across a stretch of fresh grass, certainly better manicured than any fields we ever get a chance to use. The former is just silly (a sport named after an adjective?!), the product of stoned hippies discovering a new game they could play that would allow them to feel like athletes for an hour or two. “Hey man, this shit is the ultimate!” they’d opine in between drags from a joint and cups of beer (certainly applying the same statement to their bud or brew). I suppose I should feel lucky that they chose “ultimate” over another adjective–I could be playing “groovy Frisbee.”