At least about airports and security lines.

So many times, Kris wants to show up at the airport so early I want to cry. I sometimes resist, and the start of the flight is stressful, waiting in line, wondering if we'll make the flight, what are all these people doing flying at the same time I want to fly, everybody go home.

He's always right about Seattle's airport. I'm always amazed how the line can grow so freakin' long so quickly there.

Several years ago, maybe 2001, Kris and I were in Seattle (for Potlatch, no surprise there), and had early flights back home. Kris won the argument for shuttle times, and we arrived at the airport just before 5 am.

Now, at just before five, the lines are quiet, short and quick. Kris hadn't been feeling good all night, and we were in such a security line when his stomach pains became unbearable. He told me to go through the security line, that he would meet me at the gate after he used the restroom. I decided to wait with him instead, and we dashed out of the line to the nearest restroom.

Kris was in the restroom for about 45 minutes. During those 45 minutes, I sat outside and watched the security line grow from the maybe 20 people in line when we left the line, to a queue over 300 yards long as it exited the main security gates and wound down the hall and back around several times.

At about 25 minutes into the waiting, it became apparent that we were going to miss our flight, as we wouldn't be able to pass through the security line and reach our gate in time. We still had an hour before our flight departure time.

How things changed in 25 minutes.

At 5:00 am, the difference between 4:55 and 5:20 doesn't seem like much, but it can mean the difference between making a flight and not.

Before one of our games at Potlatch today, I talked to a player who is trained to be an observer for games played during the UPA Club Championship Series.

Observers are persons trained in how to watch ultimate in order to dispute calls during a game if requested. The "if requested" is important, as ultimate is still a player refereed game: players make active calls, not referees. The observers are potential referees, in as much as they will settle disputes between two players, but they usually just watch (observe) the game.

Because they settle disputes between players, observers have to know the rules really well. They also know the little tiny nuances of the game, as well as the quite esoteric, but legitimate, interpretations of the rules. In the end, they interpret the rules the way the UPA would interpret them.

The observer and I were talking about fouls on the thrower, and I learned a bit about how various situatuions which are fouls, and some that aren't, but seem as if they should be. It was an interesting discussion.

Later, we played against the team the obsever was playing on. She was defending against me, and behind me when a call was made as I was streaking across the endzone in an open cut for the score.

When I say open, I mean open. I was about three yards or so in front of her when I recognized the call was made. I hadn't seen her the entire point (as she was behind me the whole time), and didn't realize she was my defender until I stopped and turned around to look.

As required by the rules (10th edition and fair play), I started jogging back the way I had run in order to move back to where I was when the call was made. I knew about where I should be standing, but not exactly, so as a courtesy, I asked her about where I should be.

The woman indicated where she thought I was when she recognized the call. I moved to the spot she indicated and watched in dumb-founded amazement as she positioned herself one step in front of me.

In. Front. Of. Me.

My first thought was, "HEY! No freakin' way!"

My second thought was, "Eh. Doesn't matter. I'll still outrun her when the disc comes in."

I was very careful not to move before the disc was tapped back into play (which would be a violation, causing play to stop again), and exploded towards the sideline when play did start.

My third thought as I caught the disc?

"Hmph. Even observers can cheat."

I've been disappointed, as in soul bruising, bone crushing disappointed, only twice in my life. I'm probably lucky it has been only twice.

Which isn't to say I haven't been disappointed more often than that in life (how boring would life be with no expectations and no hope), just that I've had only two of the really, really difficult to overcome disappointments.

And thankfully, only twice.

The first time was when I applied to graduate school at Caltech.

I was an undergraduate there, and through a bizarre series of course work counting snafus on both the registrar's and my parts, I missed graduating in four years by three credits. Those three credits are the equivalent of 1 credit at most universities, as 436 credits were needed to graduate from Caltech as an undergraduate.

So, there I was, not graduating, but needing only one small engineering elective to be done. Since I would already be enrolled for a full term, I figured I'd use the opportunity to get my Master's degree.

Caltech has a B.S./M.S. program where a student can take up to an extra year and receive both degrees. It seemed to be a good scenario for me, so I applied. I didn't apply for any funding, just the opportunity to get my Masters.

My application was declined.

I was devastated.

I was already taking the courses in anticipation of continuing my studies. As a result, I wasn't taking any spot away from another student for quotas. I wasn't expecting any funding, so I wasn't costing the school any money. My grades were, admittedly, not spectacular, but they were on par with my fellow classmates. I saw no reason for the declination.

I talked to various professors to appeal the decision, to no avail.

I left Tech bitter. Sure, with a B.S., but still bitter.

Eventually, my bitterness faded, and I can now remember the good parts of my undergraduate work, but it took a long time. Time. And the eventual recognition that my expectations were probably unreasonable. Although I still see no reason for declining my application, I also see no reason to accept it. I wasn't a stellar student, nor a successful researcher, so from the school's perspective, it was easier for them to just cut me lose.

Fair enough.

The second disappointment was far more recent. It is also based, tragically more so, on unrealistic expectations. In retrospect, completely and totally unrealistic expectations.

Earlier this year, I applied for Team USA, representing the United States in ultimate for the 2005 World Games in Germany on a mixed gender ultimate team.

Originally, the application process included an online application, tryouts and a by-committee team selection.

When applying, I had nothing to lose. I'm not a well known player (in terms of my play) in the ultimate community. I don't know most of the women's-only players, so I couldn't be intimidated by them. I had been training with Geno for months and had strength and quickness I had never possessed before.

No, I had nothing to lose.

Except the selection process didn't go as planned. I was training hard for the tryouts; they didn't happen. I had no chance to go up against the well known women's players. By name recognition only, I was a complete unknown.

Of all of the 37 woman applicants, I was the only one who was a true Mixed player. I've been playing mixed ultimate since I moved to the Bay Area in 1997. I've been playing with Kris since 1998. All the other women applicants play in the women's division. There was one other woman who recently "retired" to mixed, but no one else whose career was Mixed.

Which I believe helped me in the selection process: I made the first cut and was one of 14 women on the short list for 6 team spots and 2 alternates.

Exciting!!! (And, yes, that excitement deserved the usually avoided multiple exclamation points.)

Unfortunately, it also raised my expectations for making the team.

In a completely irrational way, I began to hope. Wow, I might make Team USA. Omigod, how unbelievably cool would that be?

I started working out even harder. My usual 3-4 hours / day, 6 days a week workouts became 4-5 hours / day, 6 days a week. I gained weight. I gained strength. I gained muscle like I'd never had before.

Yes, I was definitely excited and motivated. For the first time in my life, I was motivated to do well in sports. I wanted to make this team more than I thought imaginable. I worked out physically. I worked on my mental game. I did everything I could do. I ate, slept, dreamt ultimate.

Kris warned me.

He tried. Oh, he tried. He tried very hard to reduce my expectations. He knew what was coming. In retrospect, I should have, too.

Truly unsurprisingly, I didn't make the team. And rightly so, actually.

I can say this now. I realize now that I'm not at the elite women's player level of play. I can hold my own, but I'm really not a Team USA level player.

I can't say it's impossible for me to become physically capable of playing at the elite level. I've tried only once, and that was earlier this year.

What I can say, however, is that I don't have the confidence or mental game to play that game. I can also say if I had started playing years before I did, I might have learned that confidence. But I didn't. And I don't. And I can't play at that level.

Phew! That said (and I can say that now), at the time of team announcements, I was disappointed. Bone crushing, soul searing disappointed.

All the small injuries I had been ignored rushed at me. I lost any desire to play ultimate. Playing became a chore. Every failed throw, every bad cut, every drop became a demonstration of how bad of a player I was.

I stopped having fun.

So, I stopped playing.

I quit Mischief. I took my name off all the mailing lists and team signups. I stopped going to practice. I stopped going to tournaments. I stopped running.

Citing injuries, I started to fade from the local ultimate scene. I pulled away from my friends. I pulled away from Kris.

I wanted nothing to do with the thing that caused me so much hurt.

But it's hard to stay away from something that has been such a big part of my life for over a decade. From something that somewhat defines my relationship with Kris. From something that encompasses my social network in the same way most religious groups form communities.

It almost hurt not to play. It mostly hurt my relationship with Kris. We no longer had the strategy discussions, the after-tournament reviews, the workouts, the commuting time to and from practice and tournaments.

As Kris said, "I knew this day would come, I just wasn't expecting it so soon."

So, unlike my disappointment with Tech, I could actually do something about this disappointment. I started playing again. This time, though, on my own terms.

I've been playing the games I want to play, running the workouts I want to run, and learning, once again, you get out of life what you put in.

And I've learned to accept disappointment. It hasn't been easy, and it's a lesson I should have learned long ago, but at least it's (mostly) learned now.

When I have expectations, I have to be aware of potential disappointments. And the greater the expectation, the bigger the disappointment. I don't think I'll stop having expectations. I will, however, try to put them in perspective.

That way, when I swallow that bitter pill, maybe it won't be so big.

Good luck, Team USA.

This week's instant karma is from page 246:

Give yourself freedom to fail.

Something I used to rarely do, I'm afraid, but that I'm starting to do more.

No one is successful in everything. No matter how gifted, talented, skilled, intelligent or coordinated someone is, he will fail at something at some point. Anyone who doesn't fail can't possibly be fully challenging himself.

At SFUL last night I allowed myself the freedom to fail, and threw some throws that I wouldn't throw in a Mischief game, or even in practice.

And yet they still completed.

Go fig.

This is definitely where I've been going for a while now: forgiving myself, encouraging myself, trying new things (say, singing in a Viking Operetta, or hitting a baseball in a batting cage), allowing myself to look like a complete idiot in order to learn something new.

And this is a good thing. Because in trying, we grow.

... doesn't mean they can't catch.

Or run.

And if they catch the disc in the endzone, they won't have to throw.

I managed to play for a half hour last night at my first ever SFUL league game. I was terribly late because I had a bug I just had to fix. Managed to do so, then dash up to the City, using Raphael as my carpool buddy.

When I arrived, I put my cleats on quickly and, against my better judgement, didn't run to warm up. When I watched from the sidelines the players weren't running too hard, so I hoped I would be fine in not warming up too much.

I, then, asked one of my teammates to throw with me to warm up my arm. He said sure, and stood about 5 yards away from me.

What the?

Dude, step back to 15.

I threw him the disc, a gentle backhand. He responded, "Oh, good throw. Nice!" in the most annoying, condescending way, and threw the softest backhand ever back to me.

Heh.

Yeah, mister, I suck. My fingers can't handle your throws, and I don't know how to run.

I actually didn't know what to expect. I wasn't sure of the skill level and didn't want to open my mouth to offend anyone or play at too high of a level.

Deciding to keep the whole skillset underwraps, I threw another two or three throws, then went out to the line. We were down 5-10, game to 15 or time, which expired in 20 minutes. When asked what I like to play, throw or run (heh), I responded, "Sure." They told me to go long, asked if I knew what a stack was, because they weren't stacking, and received the pull.

Three points later, the score was 8-10, with my having caught, threw or assisted each of the three scores.

So much for keeping that underwraps.

I desperately wanted to run around, so I stayed in most of the 20 minutes without subbing. I was worried about taking up too much game time, but the other women, thankfully, didn't seem to mind.

On one swing pass I received, when I turned, one of my teammates was open on her woman, cutting in hard, but still 25+ yards away. I wasn't sure if she could catch, and her "hard" was still very slow, but her timing was brilliant. You have to reward that. I threw the disc right into her chest, a soft throw that bounced out of her hands.

She may have dropped it, but I has very, very happy I threw to her. She'll make that cut again.

We lost the game 12-15, after trading points for the last few. When we went to write a cheer, the stand-in leader (Charlotte, our captain, wasn't at the game last night) told me I had to write the cheer because I had been at this game the longest because of my UPA number.

D'oh.

Busted.

When I told Kris about the evening, he told me I was Kramer, referring to the Seinfeld episode where Kramer learned karate with a bunch of 10 year olds.

When asked why he was learning with 10 year olds, Kramer responded, "I'm dominating."

After watching Gone in 60 Seconds, Kris turns to me to ask, "When is the warranty up for our car?"

"Which one?"

"Your car."

"It's already expired."

"It's already expired?"

"Yeah. We bought it in October 2000. It's now 2005. The warranty expired."

"Cool. We should install nitrous in it now."

Blink.

"Yeah, just what I need to enable my 'safe' driving. Even more power in my already too powerful car. Yeah, let's do that."

"But just think, Doyle will be willing to drive more. 'I can drive. Look, I brought an extra gallon of nitrous!'"