Thursday, November 20, 2003
Vacation Dates
I love how y'all be talking about coming home for Thanksgiving. We gonna make it for our own damn selves here.
But I'm coming home soon thereafter anyhow, because my Christmas break actually lasts a solid month. Word. 5 December to 5 January. I'm in Paris with Marie all too briefly (two days, one night, just because I can from here, you know, Ryanfuckinair, baby) until the 7th, then on the 8th I catch the marvelous flying machine back to Noo Yawk. Except for Christmas in Kansas City, the dates for which I'm not too clear on, I'll be lounging around at home, trying not to schlep up to HM too often, until everyone else starts streaming back in, which I hope happens quickly. At that point buttress your doors or be prepared to have them splintered by my banging on them.
Also for future reference, my spring break dates (I don't get a winter break) are from 5 to 31 March. But I'm very happy to host people at any time during the year, whether I'm on vacation or not--"every day is a holiday (holidaaaay)/another muthafuckin holiday (holidaaaay)..." Anyone who's got any interest at all in jumping the pond, definitely let me know. I'm dying to have people come. Already Ruthie and co. are coming in January. They have the right idea. And certain other P-utas have sworn up and down that they're coming in late March. But this is an open invite, folks. Take me up on it.
Again, I'm in the city from 8 December to 4 January. I'm'a come hunt yo' ass down. Yeah. Your personal ass. You. I miss you!
But I'm coming home soon thereafter anyhow, because my Christmas break actually lasts a solid month. Word. 5 December to 5 January. I'm in Paris with Marie all too briefly (two days, one night, just because I can from here, you know, Ryanfuckinair, baby) until the 7th, then on the 8th I catch the marvelous flying machine back to Noo Yawk. Except for Christmas in Kansas City, the dates for which I'm not too clear on, I'll be lounging around at home, trying not to schlep up to HM too often, until everyone else starts streaming back in, which I hope happens quickly. At that point buttress your doors or be prepared to have them splintered by my banging on them.
Also for future reference, my spring break dates (I don't get a winter break) are from 5 to 31 March. But I'm very happy to host people at any time during the year, whether I'm on vacation or not--"every day is a holiday (holidaaaay)/another muthafuckin holiday (holidaaaay)..." Anyone who's got any interest at all in jumping the pond, definitely let me know. I'm dying to have people come. Already Ruthie and co. are coming in January. They have the right idea. And certain other P-utas have sworn up and down that they're coming in late March. But this is an open invite, folks. Take me up on it.
Again, I'm in the city from 8 December to 4 January. I'm'a come hunt yo' ass down. Yeah. Your personal ass. You. I miss you!
Light blogging alert
Jacob is, at long last, showing up tomorrow (tomorrow fucking morning at SEVEN A fucking M, thank you), which is marvelous wonderfool and we will be off for five days of carousal and also all the sightseeing I haven't done. When I get back everyone's going to ask me, Have you been to see the X? and I'll go The what? The X? Ohhh, right, the X. I think I know where that is. But, uh, no. Never been. But there's this pub down the road where the whole place is lit solely by the fires of a thousand flaming cocktails, it's great craic, I'll take you sometime. Oh, and there's this one waitress there on Friday nights and for €10 she does this AMAZING thing with a zippo, a funnel, Jose Cuervo, an air compressor, and her...I have said too much already.
On the disjunction of spoken and written language: the word craic has thoroughly insinuated itself into my oral lexicon. I use it in speech all the time. But whenever I see it on the page, even when I write it, I get like Jon Stewart GOD I miss the Daily Show BY the way and anyway I go Whuuuuuuh? Because it still looks to me like it should be pronounced CRAY-ic. Which it isn't. It's said Crack. I have a feeling that people will be asking me How's Dublin and I'll go Oh, it's quality craic and everyone will wonder just what the FUCK have you been doing over there?
Yeah. So anyway. Jacob's here until Tuesday afternoon. But just because I stop "sounding my barbaric yawp" doesn't mean you all should. Write me letters, you jammy wankers!
On the disjunction of spoken and written language: the word craic has thoroughly insinuated itself into my oral lexicon. I use it in speech all the time. But whenever I see it on the page, even when I write it, I get like Jon Stewart GOD I miss the Daily Show BY the way and anyway I go Whuuuuuuh? Because it still looks to me like it should be pronounced CRAY-ic. Which it isn't. It's said Crack. I have a feeling that people will be asking me How's Dublin and I'll go Oh, it's quality craic and everyone will wonder just what the FUCK have you been doing over there?
Yeah. So anyway. Jacob's here until Tuesday afternoon. But just because I stop "sounding my barbaric yawp" doesn't mean you all should. Write me letters, you jammy wankers!
Because I'm proud of it, that's why
This is an extract from an email Captain Tom sent out after IV's in Cork (by the way, it took me a very long time to realize that they didn't mean the Ivies--hey, it's what I'm used to hearing--they mean the InterVarsities. This was one of those moments of epiphany St. John keeps talking about):
Subject heading: What a frizbizzsizzling weekend!
"Big UP to everyone who came down to Cork and gave it their all and made the weekend an historic one for Irish Ultimate. Big up to Trinity B who were awesome and hit the clouds on a steep mofoin learning curve and showed serious talent especially without shorts and also for kicking UCD2's ass. Big up to Sam for taking the lead. A shout out to Trinity A and a great final and taking runner's up crystal and giving UCD a run for their money. Fair play to the bitches, they played beautiful disc."
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Tom, it should be said, is utterly white. And Irish.
I post this because I'm fiercely proud of my team. Because they actually are my bloody team. It's a rare, lovely thing to have a group of sincerely enthusiastic people look to you for guidance, and--which is even more shocking--actually listen to that guidance when you offer it. People are listening to me! They want me to teach them things! I must be on drugs.
The only problem is I'm not equipped to teach them all that much. But let it never be said that the grounding in the finer points of bullshitting I received at the Horace Mann school was anything less than tremendously useful.
Subject heading: What a frizbizzsizzling weekend!
"Big UP to everyone who came down to Cork and gave it their all and made the weekend an historic one for Irish Ultimate. Big up to Trinity B who were awesome and hit the clouds on a steep mofoin learning curve and showed serious talent especially without shorts and also for kicking UCD2's ass. Big up to Sam for taking the lead. A shout out to Trinity A and a great final and taking runner's up crystal and giving UCD a run for their money. Fair play to the bitches, they played beautiful disc."
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Tom, it should be said, is utterly white. And Irish.
I post this because I'm fiercely proud of my team. Because they actually are my bloody team. It's a rare, lovely thing to have a group of sincerely enthusiastic people look to you for guidance, and--which is even more shocking--actually listen to that guidance when you offer it. People are listening to me! They want me to teach them things! I must be on drugs.
The only problem is I'm not equipped to teach them all that much. But let it never be said that the grounding in the finer points of bullshitting I received at the Horace Mann school was anything less than tremendously useful.
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Storytime
The True Story of Warren the Architect and the Mean New York State Architecture Judges
Once upon a time, there was a young man named Warren Ashworth. He wanted to be an architect. Warren had been a good student in Architecture school, whatever his issues with his Structure class, and today he was taking the big New York State architectural exam. The exam was awfully long for young Warren. It lasted for hours and hours. When he finally came to the Design section, he decided that he was getting sleepy. He wanted to go home and get in bed with a nice cup of cocoa. He was hungry, too, because he had eaten all the yummy food he had brought in that big Zabar's bag. But Warren had to finish his exam, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to unless he woke up a little. So he decided to play. He drew these big pretty towers and domes and arches. He made stained-glass windows and thick wood doors. He loved his design. It was pretty. And big.
But poor Warren failed his exam. Why did he fail his exam? Because the mean men who were grading him didn't like what he had done with his design. They were probably minimalists, thought Warren. So he went back next time, like the little engine that could, and got all worked up designing a building that he was sure the mean old judges would like.
But poor Warren failed again. He was confused now. If they weren't modern, and they weren't classical, then what could they be? Then it hit him: they were avant-gardists! Yes, that was it! So brave little Warren went back in one more time and designed a house like no one had ever seen before! The living room floated in the air! The beds were on the ceiling! The sinks were flat and the chairs had both backs AND fronts! This time, Warren was sure that those smelly old judges would like his design.
Poor Warren. Those judges just didn't like him. They made him fail for the THIRD TIME. Warren didn't know what to do now. So he went and asked his friend, Andy Architect, to help him.
"Andy," said Warren, "help me. I don't know what to do. I make these pretty pretty buildings and every time the judges tell me they're no good. What can I do?"
"Warren," said Andy, who was a very smart boy, "those judges don't want to see art. All they want to see is that you've put in enough bathrooms, ventilation, emergency exits, and wheelchair access points."
"That's all?" said Warren. "They don't want pretty?"
"No, Warren," said Andy, "They don't want pretty. They want toilets."
So Warren went right back to those judges and he drew for them the ugliest, grayest, boringest building EVER. And he loaded it with toilets and vents and handicapped entrances and emergency exits and sprinklers and everything.
And he passed!
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Now the moral of this story: When you're debating, it turns out, the adjudicators don't give two shits WHAT you say, nor with what eloquence or fluency you say it. All they care about is that you follow this precise and, paradoxically, spectacularly polymorphic structure that they never quite explain to you until after you've fucked it up. I have quite had it with being told that You speak extremely well, very articulate, you have a natural gift, but you didn't do x y and z. Yeah? Well, what about what I DID do? I have also had it with being told that It was an extremely difficult decision, and had we taken one more person, it would have been you, but definitely keep debating; we can use people like you.
Fuck off.
No, not really Fuck off. I'm just a little irritated at the last decision. Three people moved into the semifinals, and while I was perfectly okay with two of them, I was fairly appalled at the third. He was first prop, which is by far the easiest position, and he spoke terribly. He was reading the entire time off cue cards (which, when I did it once, was a cardinal sin), he was not particularly articulate by anyone's standards, least of all my own, he stammered constantly, and he was unpersuasive and bland. On the other hand, he did precisely what the first prop is supposed to do: exposition. Flesh out and explain the proposition on the table (which was, I might add, just about the easiest topic to argue for, and toughest to argue against, I have ever seen: the legalization of prostitution). That's it. And he did that. So fuckin kudos to you, bucko. (K is funny)
Apparently, one of the worst things you can do in a debate is assume that you are speaking to intelligent beings. We are constantly told this by the adjudicators: We are stupid. And tired. And generally hung over. And of course you want to reply, Then what the fuck are you doing judging?
Okay, cheap joke. Obviously they know how to do this better than we do. They've internalized the structure. They are magnificent bullshitters, I will readily admit. But I am sick of finding myself crucified for the sin of trusting my audience to INFER something once in a while. Take something as given. I should think that to guide an audience, little by little, through a transparently obvious point (like all I should have to say is, All employment is prostitution: it's the commodification of a specialized skill, its cheapening in an expanding market, and its subsequent exploitation at the hands of the bourgeoisie. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I think this is self-evident and that I don't need to reference all of Das fucking Kapital to prove it) is not only to insult its intelligence, though that turns out to be the idea here, but also to waste time I simply don't have. The point of aphorisms and -isms and words like commodification is that they save time: economy of language means economy of time. The shorter and more loosely-defined your words are, the longer you're going to have to talk. Pain in the ass.
I may still get a chance to go to the semis. I came so close to making it through that I have a chance at the wild card, which is how I made it into the quarterfinals. The alternative is the Maggies, which is an internal thing, and it's sort of impromptu debating, two partners on each side. So I may do that. But one thing I'm sure of: from now on, I'm going out there hurling toilets.
Once upon a time, there was a young man named Warren Ashworth. He wanted to be an architect. Warren had been a good student in Architecture school, whatever his issues with his Structure class, and today he was taking the big New York State architectural exam. The exam was awfully long for young Warren. It lasted for hours and hours. When he finally came to the Design section, he decided that he was getting sleepy. He wanted to go home and get in bed with a nice cup of cocoa. He was hungry, too, because he had eaten all the yummy food he had brought in that big Zabar's bag. But Warren had to finish his exam, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to unless he woke up a little. So he decided to play. He drew these big pretty towers and domes and arches. He made stained-glass windows and thick wood doors. He loved his design. It was pretty. And big.
But poor Warren failed his exam. Why did he fail his exam? Because the mean men who were grading him didn't like what he had done with his design. They were probably minimalists, thought Warren. So he went back next time, like the little engine that could, and got all worked up designing a building that he was sure the mean old judges would like.
But poor Warren failed again. He was confused now. If they weren't modern, and they weren't classical, then what could they be? Then it hit him: they were avant-gardists! Yes, that was it! So brave little Warren went back in one more time and designed a house like no one had ever seen before! The living room floated in the air! The beds were on the ceiling! The sinks were flat and the chairs had both backs AND fronts! This time, Warren was sure that those smelly old judges would like his design.
Poor Warren. Those judges just didn't like him. They made him fail for the THIRD TIME. Warren didn't know what to do now. So he went and asked his friend, Andy Architect, to help him.
"Andy," said Warren, "help me. I don't know what to do. I make these pretty pretty buildings and every time the judges tell me they're no good. What can I do?"
"Warren," said Andy, who was a very smart boy, "those judges don't want to see art. All they want to see is that you've put in enough bathrooms, ventilation, emergency exits, and wheelchair access points."
"That's all?" said Warren. "They don't want pretty?"
"No, Warren," said Andy, "They don't want pretty. They want toilets."
So Warren went right back to those judges and he drew for them the ugliest, grayest, boringest building EVER. And he loaded it with toilets and vents and handicapped entrances and emergency exits and sprinklers and everything.
And he passed!
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Now the moral of this story: When you're debating, it turns out, the adjudicators don't give two shits WHAT you say, nor with what eloquence or fluency you say it. All they care about is that you follow this precise and, paradoxically, spectacularly polymorphic structure that they never quite explain to you until after you've fucked it up. I have quite had it with being told that You speak extremely well, very articulate, you have a natural gift, but you didn't do x y and z. Yeah? Well, what about what I DID do? I have also had it with being told that It was an extremely difficult decision, and had we taken one more person, it would have been you, but definitely keep debating; we can use people like you.
Fuck off.
No, not really Fuck off. I'm just a little irritated at the last decision. Three people moved into the semifinals, and while I was perfectly okay with two of them, I was fairly appalled at the third. He was first prop, which is by far the easiest position, and he spoke terribly. He was reading the entire time off cue cards (which, when I did it once, was a cardinal sin), he was not particularly articulate by anyone's standards, least of all my own, he stammered constantly, and he was unpersuasive and bland. On the other hand, he did precisely what the first prop is supposed to do: exposition. Flesh out and explain the proposition on the table (which was, I might add, just about the easiest topic to argue for, and toughest to argue against, I have ever seen: the legalization of prostitution). That's it. And he did that. So fuckin kudos to you, bucko. (K is funny)
Apparently, one of the worst things you can do in a debate is assume that you are speaking to intelligent beings. We are constantly told this by the adjudicators: We are stupid. And tired. And generally hung over. And of course you want to reply, Then what the fuck are you doing judging?
Okay, cheap joke. Obviously they know how to do this better than we do. They've internalized the structure. They are magnificent bullshitters, I will readily admit. But I am sick of finding myself crucified for the sin of trusting my audience to INFER something once in a while. Take something as given. I should think that to guide an audience, little by little, through a transparently obvious point (like all I should have to say is, All employment is prostitution: it's the commodification of a specialized skill, its cheapening in an expanding market, and its subsequent exploitation at the hands of the bourgeoisie. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I think this is self-evident and that I don't need to reference all of Das fucking Kapital to prove it) is not only to insult its intelligence, though that turns out to be the idea here, but also to waste time I simply don't have. The point of aphorisms and -isms and words like commodification is that they save time: economy of language means economy of time. The shorter and more loosely-defined your words are, the longer you're going to have to talk. Pain in the ass.
I may still get a chance to go to the semis. I came so close to making it through that I have a chance at the wild card, which is how I made it into the quarterfinals. The alternative is the Maggies, which is an internal thing, and it's sort of impromptu debating, two partners on each side. So I may do that. But one thing I'm sure of: from now on, I'm going out there hurling toilets.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
A thought I thunk sitting here futzing around not eating lunch
I'm looking forward to coming home. I'm looking forward to bewildering everyone with vernacular I have no business using.
Ye langers. Ye wee spotty langers.
Ye langers. Ye wee spotty langers.
Monday, November 17, 2003
Briefly, because I've been at this damn computer for three hours and haven't eaten anything today.
Just got a call from the editor of Icarus, ma. Two pieces are being published: the whitewater of the data stream and the unmentionable one. I think I'm going to put my real name on both. If anyone has any opinions on owning up to authorship, please post them; I'm still pretty undecided on the matter and I have until wednesday at noon to give my final decision.
Now to go home and eat. It's 6pm, damn it. Congratulations to any hapless soul with too much time on their hands who slogs all the way through the frisbee saga.
Now to go home and eat. It's 6pm, damn it. Congratulations to any hapless soul with too much time on their hands who slogs all the way through the frisbee saga.
I realize this post is absurdly long, and that the vast majority of you don't give a shit.
Me: Hmm. I don't know. Your light blue shirts are a little tough to distinguish from our white ones. Do you guys have darks?
Andy (UCD 2 captain): Don't think so. How about skins?
Me: Well, that's hardly fair to you, seeing as how it's freezing out. I know! Let's go shirts and shorts.
Andy: Come again?
Me: Of course! You take off your shirts, we take off our pants!
Andy: Great idea!
TCD 2/UCD 2 teams: Yeah! Woohoo!
(we strip en masse)
And thus came it to pass that seven did array their halfnaked selves on the line, and the TCD players did wear no pants, and did freeze their bollocks off, and the UCD players, no small number of whom belonged to the feminine gender, and very impressively so, did wear no shirts, and did freeze their tits off, and there was much flopping and flapping and jiggling and juggling and merriment.
Fiona (or, as she was known to our side, "White Bra"), the more experienced UCD 2 captain, who is terrifically fetching example of the archetypal Irish lass--indeed, I have never seen anyone look more Irish; brilliant red hair, albino white skin, the works--told me afterward that the girls had intended, near the end, to set up a zone D wherein the three most abundantly bosomed would form the cup around the disc, quite paralyzing the offense and most likely ensuring a stall call. I'm very sorry they never got around to it; I was usually the one on disc.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
So it was, in short, a blast. Cracking good craic. I suppose I have to relate the whole story now.
The bus left at 3pm from TCD. On it with us were the DIT squad. They sat up front; we sat in the back. Also with us were approximately four beers per person. The ride was just like any other six-hour bus ride, with violent singing and devious games and so forth, only this one involved alcohol.
The bus driver was a prick. When you are dealing with a busload of people drinking beer and the toilet doesn't work, it is, I should think, to be expected that they are going to want to stop a LOT. There is no need to be so damn surly. There were many excruciating half-hours.
When we finally arrrived, the driver overshot the hostel considerably, and then, like an asshole, refused to backtrack and made us get off in the middle of nowhere. Cork, it turns out, is a little like San Francisco in terms of hills. She go straight up and she go straight down. We had to go straight up. With all of our bags. So we made it to the hostel at around 10pm (I have now stayed at every Kinlay House in Ireland: Dublin, Galway, Cork).
That night, before we went out to the meet-and-greet shindig at the Western Star pub/club, Tom named the teams. At the same time he made me captain of 2, which was quite unexpected. I wasn't quite sure how to react. Had I been just given a spot on 1 (for which I am, it is roundly agreed, qualified), it would have been like offering me a ride in a Ferrari. But a short ride. Because that team will have almost entirely disintegrated in two years. The other option was to give me a car kit, which, if I engineered it properly, could very well turn into a Ferrari, one which I could actually drive, not just ride in. Of course if I didn't handle it right, if I used cheap glue and just jammed the parts together, would leave me with a Yugo. Does this make sense?
I will skip to the next morning: both squads had 9am games, which means we all had to wake up at half seven. Brutal, seeing as how most people were hung over. We had the traditional hostel breakfast of toast, marmalade, and swill coffee. Added bonus of "orange juice," though it could be safely said that no oranges were injured in the making of this juice. Then we staggered over to the pitches, which were of course a 30-minute walk away. It was cold as hell.
I should describe our squad. No one--not even myself--has been playing for even a year. I am the only one who started before the first practice. It's a team of rank beginners, and I include myself here. I'm also pretty sure I'm the youngest.
The most handy by far is Keane. He's a fresher, athletic, good runner, good positioning. Once he learns how to throw, he could be great. Already his defending is excellent. Also he's a lefty. Dan and Rob are third-years and competent, for beginners. Rob can almost throw, and he has the added bonus of being nice and tall. Unfortunately he can't judge a disc in the air. Dan will make a good handler if he ever develops a flick; as it is he's under the impression he has a hammer, which he uses at all the wrong times. Though I shouldn't really judge; I think I threw 75% hammers this tournament. But what do you want? It's my best throw. Donal, a fresher, is a workhorse. He lays out a lot and plays stellar D. Grainne (pronounced GRON-yuh) is a post-grad in law, I think, and is a surprisingly good defender. Unfortunately, she has no throw at all. But she'll quickly develop one. Claire is the other girl, but I haven't much of an idea how she plays, seeing as how an injury sat her out the second day. Owen is an enthusiastic fresher, fast when he needs to be. Learning to throw. He'll make a good popper. Alexis is French, a third-year Erasmus student, who mercifully will be out of my hair next year. He is a disaster, except for his bizarre ability to catch garbage. The thing is, he can ONLY catch garbage; if you actually throw it AT him, it's a sure shot he'll drop it. Also, he has a tendency to throw the disc. Which you might think would be a good thing to do, seeing as how this is Ultimate, after all. Only not. Alexis is infalliable. His hand, it seems, lends to any disc an overpowering geotropism, inducing it to wrench downward in midair, quite away from any intended recipient of the pass. I cannot count how many drives he wrecked trying to throw.
You may notice a theme running through that description: the throwing. We don't have it. No one on that team can throw a disc. SOME of them have backhands, though not over a distance of more than 30 feet; not a one has a remotely serviceable flick. And forget about hammers. And as I learned this weekend, the one most important thing on an ultimate team is the throwing.
So there are the dramatis personae. What follows is the story of how a very ragtag bunch of beginners exceeded all expectations, shocked better teams, and had a hell of a time doing so.
No, really. I'm not being sarcastic. That's just what happened.
Our first game was against DCU, a very strong team with two Irish all-stars and one or two national team players. This was the first time any of us had played together. But we actually jumped to an early lead, 2-1, on the strength of two of my hucks to a well-placed Rob. But from there it fizzled, and we were trounced, 8-2. The games, by the way, only went to 12 points, with a 45-minute time cap. The idea was to get a sense of how we played, who could do what, and so forth. It turned out no one could do anything. The running, the catching, and that goddamn throwing. None of it was there.
After that we had an hour break. At 11, though, we swung into a marathon. Three straight games. First was Sligo. They were going ironman, which is to say, they had no subs. With only five actual Sligo players, they had to borrow two more, first from UC Cork, then from UCD. But they were nonetheless a more practiced team, and way more experienced. Though we scored significantly more, I think, than against DCU (they weren't that good). Also their captain, Carl, had an unbelievably irritating technique of guarding by rapidly clapping his hands in your face, completely obstructing your view. It was later pointed out to him that this was very much illegal, as you're not allowed to obstruct the thrower's view with your hands. But of course they beat us. We were trying to play with positions, which turned out to be a total bust. We hadn't really distinguished ourselves much.
We then went into a game with UCD 1, who would win the final the next day. That was frustrating, personally. My throws all went off, I singlehandedly snuffed out good drives by hucking swill into the end zone, I got totally burned by their captain, etc. It was totally demoralizing. Until we scored.
It doesn't seem like much when you lose 12-1. But the way it happened was magnificent. I tried to slot a pass to Donal in the end zone between two defenders, which was stupid. It got knocked down, obviously. But somehow, Keane--I believe it was Keane; I was hardly watching, as I think I had my face in my hands--intercepted their pass, flung it to a teammate who was making a perfect cut, who then slung it to Donal, who was streaking through the end zone. I can't describe how shocking it was. We could hardly wait for this massacre to end so we could go after UCC 2.
And go after them we did. We suddenly realized that it was working. We stopped trying to play positions. I said, It's time for some good old-fashioned ultimate frisbee, and off we went. They were a slightly better team in terms of the basics, but it was becoming apparent that what our team lacked in fundamentals, it made up for in positioning. Except for me, who was and is terrible at playing in a cluster, they were appallingly good at the ten-foot passing game. We pushed ahead of UCC 2, and then they pushed back. In the middle of play, the bell rung signaling the end of the game, but the rules dictated that you finish the point. They also state that no match can end in a tie.
By now, we had played almost four full games, three of them consecutive. I had never subbed out. I had to play all of every game, always covering the best player on the team. It was cold, no one had stretched properly, and we were stiff as corpses, all of us. And so I was running downfield in hot pursuit, I felt these twinges in the back of both thighs. You know when you're about to cramp up? Like your muscles are about to flip over one another? Had I run another ten feet I would have been fucked for the whole tournament. So I had to call for an injury sub. Didn't have a choice. We were up 7-6. If we scored that point, the game was over. But we didn't. UCC equalized at 7-7 right a minute or two after I took myself out. So we went into sudden death. I had to come back in, but I also had to make sure I didn't have to run. Which is to say the point had to be completed very, very fast. They were pulling to us, having just scored. I decided a play might be in order. The Mikes will remember the sin play, where 1 and 5 in the stack break. But I had to space this out. I went with a three-man stack, with myself at 1 and Keane, the fastest, at 3. I put Dan on dump, Rob on disc, and Alexis and Grainne out on the wings where they could do the least damage. Also drawing their defenders out of the play. It was very simple. Rob picks up the disc. I cut in for a short pass, turn, and huck it like hell to Keane in the end zone. And so they pulled it. Badly. Keane stopped the disc's roll and Rob picked it up. They forced away, so I went with it. Rob threw me the disc, I turned, faked backhand, turned forehand, and released.
You know how when you're playing basketball, you shoot it and immediately you know it's going in? There's not a doubt in your mind: nothing but net. That's what this throw was like. I knew from the moment I let it go that the game was over. Best throw I've ever made. That's the joy in frisbee: when you let a good one go, you just know it. You feel it in your fingertips. Not too high, not too low, not too fast, not too slow. Keane cut beautifully. His man was just a few steps behind him, and he darted in front to try and cut off the huck. Bad idea. Keane judged it perfectly, drifting deeper into the end zone as the disc passed over his defender's head. He jumped, pulled it down, clutched it, and pandemonium.
All we really wanted to do after that was keep going, but we were wrecked. We hung around for a while, freezing our kushkas off, and then staggered back the way we came. Because that night was party night.
We napped a little, showered a little, and headed back out at around half six. First order of business was finding food--or, more specifically, affordable yet edible food. This is rather hard when pizzas will run you €6-10, and most chippers, while somewhat affordable establishment, hardly produce anything edible. In any case, we failed quite thoroughly in this endeavor, and in the end found ourselves at Jade Palace eating €12 two-course chinese dinners. I had barbeque spareribs (all two of them!) and chicken chow mein, which was brilliantly tasteless. All chinese food in this country is tasteless. How I pine for Ollie's! Or even Silk Road! Or Lee's Chinese Kitchen!
After that we headed back to the pub, where all the TCD people were to meet up. We had of course chosen a rather small pub, where there was no room at all to sit, so after two beers apiece and a few songs on the jukebox, six of us cut out and headed for the off-licence (liquor store). And now we have a new euphemism for slumming it: Knacker drinking. We bought two pints of Carling (€1.49) apiece and headed for the alleyways. We finally found this walled-in parking lot, well-lit but hidden amid dark streets. Brilliant. We lingered and drank and made merry and and quoted the Family Guy and found corners to pee in (except poor Grainne) till a Garda officer on a motorcycle threw us out ("But we were waiting for our friend to pick us up!"). So we headed for the Fast Eddie's/Bar Rhumba, where the party was. Bear in mind it was only around 10pm.
So of course it was packed. But it was class anyway. Not much to mention in terms of what went on, it's the same as any party in a pub. The club upstairs opened up at midnight, but no way was I paying €6 for shitty music. So Tom (who is, incidentally, 6' 7") and I fecked a pair of pint glasses, and we headed out with Fuzzy, Steve from DCU (a national player, but also a drunken gnome--like an unemployed leprechaun with a hangover), Mike (a boring American visiting) and one other guy whose identity eludes me. We decided to go bowling, and bowling we went. We paid for our shoes and game (something like €5 apiece) and started playing. Then two frames in, we got thrown out. Steve had of course lit up a joint.
So we wandered back to the hostel. It was only 1:30 but we crashed, exhausted. Tomorrow morning at 10, TCD 2 had to play its older sibling.
We had decided beforehand that I would forfeit and that we would mix it up, scrimmaging a little. We took some first team players and romped around. It was good. Not too exhausting. Then, after some confusion, it was decided that we would be playing UCD 2, who had been beaten 12-1 by TCD 1, but in only 23 minutes. It took UCD 1 about 40 minutes to do that to us. This was a match we had all been looking forward to. UCD and TCD are traditionally the best varsities in the country. Both teams were fairly loaded with beginners, except that they had the advantage of being stacked with girls who could play. Their men were as incompetent as ours, but their girls were fierce. Two of them were American juniors.
So it was that at 11:30 am, we found ourselves without pants, and the UCD players sans shirts. What ensued was the greatest game of ultimate played thus far in the history of the game. I think the next step for these two teams is strip ultimate, where you remove an article of clothing every time the other team scores. Their girls were also very sporting. Grainne was the only one unwilling; she had no intention of running around in a string, she said. Though nobody would have complained. It was, however, really fucking cold.
In any case, we romped. We played a brilliant game and destroyed them, earning the right to play DIT in the plate semifinals. The second day, the tournament broke into championship and plate divisions: TCD, UCD, DCU, and UCC were in the former; TCD 2, UCD 2, UCC 2, DIT, and Sligo were in the plate. We were almost the lowest seed. UCC 2 got a bye in the first round, but were knocked out by Sligo. So we were up next.
DIT is a good team. They have two excellent players: Adam, MVP of the tournament two years running, and Podge, who is significantly better than Adam and has the greatest hands I've ever seen. He catches absolutely everything. So we decided that shorts-less was the way to go. We actually decided never to play in pants again. DIT were very obliging, removing their shirts so everyone would be equally cold. And we proceeded to play a game that, incredibly, wrested the title of greatest game ever from our previous match. Because we were not supposed to beat these guys. They all could throw and they all could catch. They had gotten a bye through to the semifinals. But somehow, we got it together defensively and d-blocked and forced our way to what was unquestionably the upset of the tournament. Magnificent.
And so the final. Whatever the outcome, we had done extraordinarily well. We were supposed to come in 8th. Dead last. And when we charged out of the gate against Sligo, racking it up to 3-1, it looked like we were going to go all the way. But then they came back. They were a far, far better team, but damn if we didn't put up a fight. The end score was 7-4 them. It was our eighth game in two days. We had played more than any other team. I call it promising.
In the championship final, Trinity 1 fell to UCD 1 15-10. But it was without a doubt the best game I've ever seen. The two teams are more evenly matched than the score belies, and it was like the clash of the titans. My squad, we are all very convinced, will be that good in two years. Next year, UCD is fucked. TCD will be slightly in tatters. DCU will win everything. The year after that, it's all ours for the taking.
I came out of that tournament one t-shirt and one Carlsberg pint glass richer. The t-shirt has a Fite-Wassilaks (Name of our team. It's Fuzzy's last name) logo on the front and an disc-clutching evil Calvin on the back. Word.
And yes, Sam, we have a hoo-ah: "You gotta huck, bid, pillage, and burn, you gotta huck bid pillage and burn EAT THE BABIES! Repeat until frenzy occurs. Also we have calls. Every team has calls. Some are--well, most are somewhat unmentionable ("Penny in the hole," for instance, involves the transfer of a coin from one hole to another. One of those holes is in the ground; the other winks at the ground), but all are generally brilliant. Fighting wheelbarrows, tall man short man (the latter clambers up the front of the former, down his back, through his legs, and back to the front, all without touching the ground. It actually can be done), and so on. In short, it was a fabulous weekend, and I sincerely look forward to owning Irish ultimate in a few years.
Andy (UCD 2 captain): Don't think so. How about skins?
Me: Well, that's hardly fair to you, seeing as how it's freezing out. I know! Let's go shirts and shorts.
Andy: Come again?
Me: Of course! You take off your shirts, we take off our pants!
Andy: Great idea!
TCD 2/UCD 2 teams: Yeah! Woohoo!
(we strip en masse)
And thus came it to pass that seven did array their halfnaked selves on the line, and the TCD players did wear no pants, and did freeze their bollocks off, and the UCD players, no small number of whom belonged to the feminine gender, and very impressively so, did wear no shirts, and did freeze their tits off, and there was much flopping and flapping and jiggling and juggling and merriment.
Fiona (or, as she was known to our side, "White Bra"), the more experienced UCD 2 captain, who is terrifically fetching example of the archetypal Irish lass--indeed, I have never seen anyone look more Irish; brilliant red hair, albino white skin, the works--told me afterward that the girls had intended, near the end, to set up a zone D wherein the three most abundantly bosomed would form the cup around the disc, quite paralyzing the offense and most likely ensuring a stall call. I'm very sorry they never got around to it; I was usually the one on disc.
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So it was, in short, a blast. Cracking good craic. I suppose I have to relate the whole story now.
The bus left at 3pm from TCD. On it with us were the DIT squad. They sat up front; we sat in the back. Also with us were approximately four beers per person. The ride was just like any other six-hour bus ride, with violent singing and devious games and so forth, only this one involved alcohol.
The bus driver was a prick. When you are dealing with a busload of people drinking beer and the toilet doesn't work, it is, I should think, to be expected that they are going to want to stop a LOT. There is no need to be so damn surly. There were many excruciating half-hours.
When we finally arrrived, the driver overshot the hostel considerably, and then, like an asshole, refused to backtrack and made us get off in the middle of nowhere. Cork, it turns out, is a little like San Francisco in terms of hills. She go straight up and she go straight down. We had to go straight up. With all of our bags. So we made it to the hostel at around 10pm (I have now stayed at every Kinlay House in Ireland: Dublin, Galway, Cork).
That night, before we went out to the meet-and-greet shindig at the Western Star pub/club, Tom named the teams. At the same time he made me captain of 2, which was quite unexpected. I wasn't quite sure how to react. Had I been just given a spot on 1 (for which I am, it is roundly agreed, qualified), it would have been like offering me a ride in a Ferrari. But a short ride. Because that team will have almost entirely disintegrated in two years. The other option was to give me a car kit, which, if I engineered it properly, could very well turn into a Ferrari, one which I could actually drive, not just ride in. Of course if I didn't handle it right, if I used cheap glue and just jammed the parts together, would leave me with a Yugo. Does this make sense?
I will skip to the next morning: both squads had 9am games, which means we all had to wake up at half seven. Brutal, seeing as how most people were hung over. We had the traditional hostel breakfast of toast, marmalade, and swill coffee. Added bonus of "orange juice," though it could be safely said that no oranges were injured in the making of this juice. Then we staggered over to the pitches, which were of course a 30-minute walk away. It was cold as hell.
I should describe our squad. No one--not even myself--has been playing for even a year. I am the only one who started before the first practice. It's a team of rank beginners, and I include myself here. I'm also pretty sure I'm the youngest.
The most handy by far is Keane. He's a fresher, athletic, good runner, good positioning. Once he learns how to throw, he could be great. Already his defending is excellent. Also he's a lefty. Dan and Rob are third-years and competent, for beginners. Rob can almost throw, and he has the added bonus of being nice and tall. Unfortunately he can't judge a disc in the air. Dan will make a good handler if he ever develops a flick; as it is he's under the impression he has a hammer, which he uses at all the wrong times. Though I shouldn't really judge; I think I threw 75% hammers this tournament. But what do you want? It's my best throw. Donal, a fresher, is a workhorse. He lays out a lot and plays stellar D. Grainne (pronounced GRON-yuh) is a post-grad in law, I think, and is a surprisingly good defender. Unfortunately, she has no throw at all. But she'll quickly develop one. Claire is the other girl, but I haven't much of an idea how she plays, seeing as how an injury sat her out the second day. Owen is an enthusiastic fresher, fast when he needs to be. Learning to throw. He'll make a good popper. Alexis is French, a third-year Erasmus student, who mercifully will be out of my hair next year. He is a disaster, except for his bizarre ability to catch garbage. The thing is, he can ONLY catch garbage; if you actually throw it AT him, it's a sure shot he'll drop it. Also, he has a tendency to throw the disc. Which you might think would be a good thing to do, seeing as how this is Ultimate, after all. Only not. Alexis is infalliable. His hand, it seems, lends to any disc an overpowering geotropism, inducing it to wrench downward in midair, quite away from any intended recipient of the pass. I cannot count how many drives he wrecked trying to throw.
You may notice a theme running through that description: the throwing. We don't have it. No one on that team can throw a disc. SOME of them have backhands, though not over a distance of more than 30 feet; not a one has a remotely serviceable flick. And forget about hammers. And as I learned this weekend, the one most important thing on an ultimate team is the throwing.
So there are the dramatis personae. What follows is the story of how a very ragtag bunch of beginners exceeded all expectations, shocked better teams, and had a hell of a time doing so.
No, really. I'm not being sarcastic. That's just what happened.
Our first game was against DCU, a very strong team with two Irish all-stars and one or two national team players. This was the first time any of us had played together. But we actually jumped to an early lead, 2-1, on the strength of two of my hucks to a well-placed Rob. But from there it fizzled, and we were trounced, 8-2. The games, by the way, only went to 12 points, with a 45-minute time cap. The idea was to get a sense of how we played, who could do what, and so forth. It turned out no one could do anything. The running, the catching, and that goddamn throwing. None of it was there.
After that we had an hour break. At 11, though, we swung into a marathon. Three straight games. First was Sligo. They were going ironman, which is to say, they had no subs. With only five actual Sligo players, they had to borrow two more, first from UC Cork, then from UCD. But they were nonetheless a more practiced team, and way more experienced. Though we scored significantly more, I think, than against DCU (they weren't that good). Also their captain, Carl, had an unbelievably irritating technique of guarding by rapidly clapping his hands in your face, completely obstructing your view. It was later pointed out to him that this was very much illegal, as you're not allowed to obstruct the thrower's view with your hands. But of course they beat us. We were trying to play with positions, which turned out to be a total bust. We hadn't really distinguished ourselves much.
We then went into a game with UCD 1, who would win the final the next day. That was frustrating, personally. My throws all went off, I singlehandedly snuffed out good drives by hucking swill into the end zone, I got totally burned by their captain, etc. It was totally demoralizing. Until we scored.
It doesn't seem like much when you lose 12-1. But the way it happened was magnificent. I tried to slot a pass to Donal in the end zone between two defenders, which was stupid. It got knocked down, obviously. But somehow, Keane--I believe it was Keane; I was hardly watching, as I think I had my face in my hands--intercepted their pass, flung it to a teammate who was making a perfect cut, who then slung it to Donal, who was streaking through the end zone. I can't describe how shocking it was. We could hardly wait for this massacre to end so we could go after UCC 2.
And go after them we did. We suddenly realized that it was working. We stopped trying to play positions. I said, It's time for some good old-fashioned ultimate frisbee, and off we went. They were a slightly better team in terms of the basics, but it was becoming apparent that what our team lacked in fundamentals, it made up for in positioning. Except for me, who was and is terrible at playing in a cluster, they were appallingly good at the ten-foot passing game. We pushed ahead of UCC 2, and then they pushed back. In the middle of play, the bell rung signaling the end of the game, but the rules dictated that you finish the point. They also state that no match can end in a tie.
By now, we had played almost four full games, three of them consecutive. I had never subbed out. I had to play all of every game, always covering the best player on the team. It was cold, no one had stretched properly, and we were stiff as corpses, all of us. And so I was running downfield in hot pursuit, I felt these twinges in the back of both thighs. You know when you're about to cramp up? Like your muscles are about to flip over one another? Had I run another ten feet I would have been fucked for the whole tournament. So I had to call for an injury sub. Didn't have a choice. We were up 7-6. If we scored that point, the game was over. But we didn't. UCC equalized at 7-7 right a minute or two after I took myself out. So we went into sudden death. I had to come back in, but I also had to make sure I didn't have to run. Which is to say the point had to be completed very, very fast. They were pulling to us, having just scored. I decided a play might be in order. The Mikes will remember the sin play, where 1 and 5 in the stack break. But I had to space this out. I went with a three-man stack, with myself at 1 and Keane, the fastest, at 3. I put Dan on dump, Rob on disc, and Alexis and Grainne out on the wings where they could do the least damage. Also drawing their defenders out of the play. It was very simple. Rob picks up the disc. I cut in for a short pass, turn, and huck it like hell to Keane in the end zone. And so they pulled it. Badly. Keane stopped the disc's roll and Rob picked it up. They forced away, so I went with it. Rob threw me the disc, I turned, faked backhand, turned forehand, and released.
You know how when you're playing basketball, you shoot it and immediately you know it's going in? There's not a doubt in your mind: nothing but net. That's what this throw was like. I knew from the moment I let it go that the game was over. Best throw I've ever made. That's the joy in frisbee: when you let a good one go, you just know it. You feel it in your fingertips. Not too high, not too low, not too fast, not too slow. Keane cut beautifully. His man was just a few steps behind him, and he darted in front to try and cut off the huck. Bad idea. Keane judged it perfectly, drifting deeper into the end zone as the disc passed over his defender's head. He jumped, pulled it down, clutched it, and pandemonium.
All we really wanted to do after that was keep going, but we were wrecked. We hung around for a while, freezing our kushkas off, and then staggered back the way we came. Because that night was party night.
We napped a little, showered a little, and headed back out at around half six. First order of business was finding food--or, more specifically, affordable yet edible food. This is rather hard when pizzas will run you €6-10, and most chippers, while somewhat affordable establishment, hardly produce anything edible. In any case, we failed quite thoroughly in this endeavor, and in the end found ourselves at Jade Palace eating €12 two-course chinese dinners. I had barbeque spareribs (all two of them!) and chicken chow mein, which was brilliantly tasteless. All chinese food in this country is tasteless. How I pine for Ollie's! Or even Silk Road! Or Lee's Chinese Kitchen!
After that we headed back to the pub, where all the TCD people were to meet up. We had of course chosen a rather small pub, where there was no room at all to sit, so after two beers apiece and a few songs on the jukebox, six of us cut out and headed for the off-licence (liquor store). And now we have a new euphemism for slumming it: Knacker drinking. We bought two pints of Carling (€1.49) apiece and headed for the alleyways. We finally found this walled-in parking lot, well-lit but hidden amid dark streets. Brilliant. We lingered and drank and made merry and and quoted the Family Guy and found corners to pee in (except poor Grainne) till a Garda officer on a motorcycle threw us out ("But we were waiting for our friend to pick us up!"). So we headed for the Fast Eddie's/Bar Rhumba, where the party was. Bear in mind it was only around 10pm.
So of course it was packed. But it was class anyway. Not much to mention in terms of what went on, it's the same as any party in a pub. The club upstairs opened up at midnight, but no way was I paying €6 for shitty music. So Tom (who is, incidentally, 6' 7") and I fecked a pair of pint glasses, and we headed out with Fuzzy, Steve from DCU (a national player, but also a drunken gnome--like an unemployed leprechaun with a hangover), Mike (a boring American visiting) and one other guy whose identity eludes me. We decided to go bowling, and bowling we went. We paid for our shoes and game (something like €5 apiece) and started playing. Then two frames in, we got thrown out. Steve had of course lit up a joint.
So we wandered back to the hostel. It was only 1:30 but we crashed, exhausted. Tomorrow morning at 10, TCD 2 had to play its older sibling.
We had decided beforehand that I would forfeit and that we would mix it up, scrimmaging a little. We took some first team players and romped around. It was good. Not too exhausting. Then, after some confusion, it was decided that we would be playing UCD 2, who had been beaten 12-1 by TCD 1, but in only 23 minutes. It took UCD 1 about 40 minutes to do that to us. This was a match we had all been looking forward to. UCD and TCD are traditionally the best varsities in the country. Both teams were fairly loaded with beginners, except that they had the advantage of being stacked with girls who could play. Their men were as incompetent as ours, but their girls were fierce. Two of them were American juniors.
So it was that at 11:30 am, we found ourselves without pants, and the UCD players sans shirts. What ensued was the greatest game of ultimate played thus far in the history of the game. I think the next step for these two teams is strip ultimate, where you remove an article of clothing every time the other team scores. Their girls were also very sporting. Grainne was the only one unwilling; she had no intention of running around in a string, she said. Though nobody would have complained. It was, however, really fucking cold.
In any case, we romped. We played a brilliant game and destroyed them, earning the right to play DIT in the plate semifinals. The second day, the tournament broke into championship and plate divisions: TCD, UCD, DCU, and UCC were in the former; TCD 2, UCD 2, UCC 2, DIT, and Sligo were in the plate. We were almost the lowest seed. UCC 2 got a bye in the first round, but were knocked out by Sligo. So we were up next.
DIT is a good team. They have two excellent players: Adam, MVP of the tournament two years running, and Podge, who is significantly better than Adam and has the greatest hands I've ever seen. He catches absolutely everything. So we decided that shorts-less was the way to go. We actually decided never to play in pants again. DIT were very obliging, removing their shirts so everyone would be equally cold. And we proceeded to play a game that, incredibly, wrested the title of greatest game ever from our previous match. Because we were not supposed to beat these guys. They all could throw and they all could catch. They had gotten a bye through to the semifinals. But somehow, we got it together defensively and d-blocked and forced our way to what was unquestionably the upset of the tournament. Magnificent.
And so the final. Whatever the outcome, we had done extraordinarily well. We were supposed to come in 8th. Dead last. And when we charged out of the gate against Sligo, racking it up to 3-1, it looked like we were going to go all the way. But then they came back. They were a far, far better team, but damn if we didn't put up a fight. The end score was 7-4 them. It was our eighth game in two days. We had played more than any other team. I call it promising.
In the championship final, Trinity 1 fell to UCD 1 15-10. But it was without a doubt the best game I've ever seen. The two teams are more evenly matched than the score belies, and it was like the clash of the titans. My squad, we are all very convinced, will be that good in two years. Next year, UCD is fucked. TCD will be slightly in tatters. DCU will win everything. The year after that, it's all ours for the taking.
I came out of that tournament one t-shirt and one Carlsberg pint glass richer. The t-shirt has a Fite-Wassilaks (Name of our team. It's Fuzzy's last name) logo on the front and an disc-clutching evil Calvin on the back. Word.
And yes, Sam, we have a hoo-ah: "You gotta huck, bid, pillage, and burn, you gotta huck bid pillage and burn EAT THE BABIES! Repeat until frenzy occurs. Also we have calls. Every team has calls. Some are--well, most are somewhat unmentionable ("Penny in the hole," for instance, involves the transfer of a coin from one hole to another. One of those holes is in the ground; the other winks at the ground), but all are generally brilliant. Fighting wheelbarrows, tall man short man (the latter clambers up the front of the former, down his back, through his legs, and back to the front, all without touching the ground. It actually can be done), and so on. In short, it was a fabulous weekend, and I sincerely look forward to owning Irish ultimate in a few years.
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