Patrick Hard used to play for a top Open team, Ring of Fire, which played in the finals of the 2002 Club Championships. Watching the various videos of him and his team, many people would say something to the effect of Patrick's being one of the, if not the, top players on the team. I recall phrases like "carried the team to..." in reference to Patrick and the team. Not only is he that good of an ultimate player, but he's that good regardless. One of the good people I like in my life, if only at the edges.

Patrick plays Mixed ultimate these days. When asked why he switched, he said, "because I don't like the person I become when I play Open." I think he was 22 when I first heard him say that, and was impressed with the wisdom and maturity of the statement. Had I known Patrick, I wouldn't have been surprised (see above reference to "good people").

Today at Regionals, I had an incident where I can honestly say, I don't like the person I've become, at least not the person on the sidelines who can't play in the game. In my lowest moment of the weekend, I acted in a completely and totally inappropriate manner on the sidelines, and I'm embarrassed about it.

Worse, I don't know how to fix it.

The incident occurred during the Golden Spike game. It was our second game of the day, after a bye, having won our first game today against Mentaltoss Flycoons, 11-10 (ooooo, tight game!). Our game yesterday against Golden Spike wasn't exactly a clean game, which is to say it was really ugly, so Kris asked Joshua Greenough, Brass Monkey's captain, and Steve Finn, Shazam Returns' captain, both of who were playing in the finals, if we could have the observers for our game. Joshua said yes. Steve said yes. We had observers.

This was good.

Various points happened, the score wasn't close (we would end up winning 15-6, breaking their spirit in the process), when Wade and a Golden Spike guy are going hard to a disc that was hucked close to the sideline where I was standing, which was close to the endzone. The two were running full sprint, with Wade on the inside, his opponent downfield one step. Wade laid out just before the other guy did, and knocked the disc away. They both landed in a heap on the ground directly in front of me. I was no more than 15 feet from the whole event. The Golden Spike player called foul, which threw Wade into a fit. "WHAT? I got there first! I hit it away!" Wade contested the foul call and threw the disc back. Both players were incredibly fired up, with the Golden Spike guy cutting hard to get open, and Wade not giving him an inch.

Meanwhile, I was on the sidelines momentarily dumbstruck at the foul call on Wade's spectacular play. But only momentarily.

Heckling of the Golden Spike would not have been out of line at that moment. Neither would expressing my incredulity at the call. Maybe a boo here or there would have been okay.

What came out of my mouth, however, was not okay.

I started screaming from the sidelines incoherent, but clearly nasty words at the Golden Spike guy. I recall looking down at my coat, thankful that you couldn't tell what team I was on, as I continued with my rage. I vaguely recall Andy looking over at me, staring for a bit, then edging away at the crazed spectator that looked like his teammate, but wasn't acting like her.

I suspect (hope beyond hope?) very few people actually heard me, and if they did, they didn't associate me with my team. However, fundamentally, I'm completely and totally embarrassed of and mortified by my actions. Life really should come with a big UNDO button. Or at least an 8 second rewind, do over, contest.

When the game was over, I noticed a Golden Spike woman crying. They had just lost their second game to go to Nationals. I was reminded of Kris' and my Rippit season where we lost the game to go to Donner Party, then the next game to go to Red Fish Blue Fish, then the last game to go to BST, whom we had beaten the first game of the day. My first thought was, "Hey, they just pulled a Rippit!" Golden Spike was about to play Mentaltoss Flycoons for fourth place and final slot to go to Nationals. They had never beaten Flycoons, and, after their game with us, they weren't going to today.

My second thought as I walked over to the start of our next game against Brass Monkey was, "You didn't really think you were going to Nationals, did you?"

Kris' thought was, "Move over, let the adults play now."

We beat Brass Monkey 14-9, for the second seed at Nationals. Taking the easy road to get there.

Today was strange.

I slept like crap last night, to be greeted with an overcast morning, no breakfast items I could really eat as most were bread or wheat-based (oh, waffles, how do I miss thee? Let me count the ways!).

Guy was there to help with the camera work, so I handed him the video cameras, showed him where the tapes were, and sent him off. A few minutes later, I was handing him my hat and my rain jacket, as the weather was crappy. Yay, Regionals in Burlington, Washington, where even the locals ask, "Why again aren't we having Regionals in California?"

We knew we had to be on this weekend, so we had a long warmup before the first game. Based on how the schedule was, and what we knew about the teams, I planned on playing the first two games, maybe the third game, then stand on the sidelines the rest of the tournament.

Our first game was against Shadrach, the second against Sleepover. Both teams were ranked fairly low in the tournament, both managed a few points on us, I played in both, while Guy used the games to practice videoing and Gillian practiced taking stats.

The third game was against Golden Spike, which gave us a game at Labor Day this year, and beat Brass Monkey at the same tournament. I didn't play in the game against them. We lost 13-15. The game was close the whole time, with our biggest lead at 9-6, and their biggest lead 10-13. Yeah, a 1-7 run for them. We faltered. We faltered, and the game was ugly. Almost every goal was called back on a foul, or travel, or pick, or other call. The wind picked up, and the game was ugly, and we lost.

By the time the fourth game started, I had already taken off my cleats. However, instead of playing Brass Monkey as we expected to play, we played Bozos, from Bosemon, Montana, originally seated 10th. The game wasn't really close. We were disheartened, yes, but they had lost before they even began. Crystal suggested I put my cleats back on, and play a few points, so in I went. I caught one throw just outside the endzone on a swing pass from Shirley, but didn't have the confidence to release the low release throw to Warren who had the perfect continue for me for the score. I had another score called back on a pick call that I mostly disagreed with, having seen my defender on my left as I was starting my cut, when I heard the pick call on my right. However, she said she was picked, so I lost my other goal. Sigh.

The bad thing about the last game was the headache that started in the middle of a point. Instead of my usual both sides migraine, this one was the right-side only headache that sent bolts of pain around the side of my head with every minor effort, such as standing up, running, lifting my bag. Two advil, a meal, and two more advil didn't do much to help it, I'm afraid.

So, we we'll go into Sunday without a first round bye. I think this'll work better for us. We're not always a first day team, and having a good game early on will fire us up.

Lisa and I dropped Jake off at his school this morning on the way to having breakfast. I'm starting to realize just how hard avoiding wheat and meat is, given how difficult choosing something to eat was this morning. Practically every item on the list had wheat in it, making breakfast limiting, yet entertaining in a way: how can I build a breakfast big enough to satisfy me but without bread, muffins, biscuits or cookies?

After breakfast, Lisa asked me if I wanted to stock up on tournament food for tomorrow. I enthusiastically said yes, and off we went to the island's Safeway. My entire experience on the island has been ferry to backroads to Hogwarts, back to the quaint downtown area, around to the ferry. I had no idea there was actually a highway that shuffled people away from the ferry to the other side of the island.

I learned about the highway today.

When we arrived at the Safeway, I looked around and commented, "Gee, I feel like I could be anywhere with a strip mall, overcast skies and a few trees." Lisa chuckled, and agreed: the shopping center was a strip mall, just like every other one you've ever been to.

Worse was when we went into the Safeway itself. I walked in maybe 5 steps, looked around, and wondered if I had teleported back to the Bay Area. The Safeway was exactly the same.

Conversation with Lori tonight:

Lori: dammit, I just remembered to check in because I read your blog
Lori: and we're in B
Lori: damn
Kitt: boo!
Kitt: Boo B!
Kitt: hmmmmmm.....
Kitt: boobie?
Lori: yay!

Way back when, during the hormonal crazed years of youth in junior high school, Jessica and I would head to the local YMCA to watch a particular boy or two. The pool was indoors, so we could watch the boys all year round, this one boy in particular. Jessica liked him. I liked him. Since we both liked him, that usually meant that she and he would date. This particular boy, however, might have been more clueless than the rest of them, unaware of our fancies.

This particular day of boy-watching, Jessica and I were more daring than normal and, well, may have (just MAY have) gone a little overboard in our displays of unrequited attractions. I vaguely recall that our going into the boy's locker room was the least of our transgressions that day. I must have buried the memories for all the other scandalous things we did, as I cannot remember a single one other than the overwhelming feeling of embarrassment these many years later.

There might have been an apple involved.

The following week, when we returned to the YMCA, we weren't allowed in. The facility had instituted a no-kids policy: anyone under 15 wasn't allowed into the facility without a parent or other adult. When we asked why the new policy, we were told last week some hooligans were ransacking the boy's locker room and causing a ruckus. They had complaints, and felt the best policy was to limit access of the delinquents.

Oh.

Okay.

Funny how a few bad apples can ruin freedom for the rest of the bushel.

Today, I rode the ferry over from Seattle to Bainbridge Island with a large amount of baggage. I had my roller bag full of my clothes and tournament garb. I had my field bag full of team warmups and camera gear for the tournament this weekend. I had my awesome new pink bag from Mom. I had my purse, er, backpack on my back. And I had my computer. Two video cameras. Two cellphones. Ten magazines. One book. Tons of crap. Moving it was a task, a big task.

On the ferry, I dumped everything in one side of the booth I was sitting in, and plunked all of myself down on the other side to start working. As with most of my trips, within minutes, I needed to go to the bathroom. I don't know what it is about being in situations where I can't go to the bathroom that causes me to HAVE to go to the bathroom. EVERY TIME.

After about twenty minutes, I REALLY had to go.

I had so much crap, and picking it all up to move it would be so difficult, a pain in the butt (and arms and back). But I had to go. After thinking about it for all of, oh, two minutes, I packed up all of my stuff, tucked it into one side of the booth, and waited for the people wandering around my area to reduce to a local minimum. I then grabbed the only bag that I really couldn't replace, stood up and turned to the bathroom.

I can't say I felt completely comfortable with leaving all of my crap in the booth while I dashed off, but I really, really had to go to the bathroom. This from the woman who locks her car doors when she drives her car into a locked police garage. Way worried about leaving my crap.

I managed to walk all of four steps towards the bathroom door, a journey of maybe 10 steps, when I saw one of the ferry's security people walking nominally in the same direction I was going. Except I didn't just see him, I saw him, he saw me, we locked eyes and stared at each other for the remaining six steps it took me to get to the women's bathroom. I broke eye contact when it was obvious my choices were look away or break my nose on the door jam.

Now, when you are about to do something that is frowned upon by the various powers that be in the small space you are currently inhabiting, or even frowned up by those who pretend to exert power in their own small dominion, but really don't have much power if you don't give it to them, rule number one really should be "Don't make eye contact." Rule number two should be "wait until they leave before you break the rules."

I went to the bathroom as quickly as I could. I doubt anyone I know could have entered that bathroom, done his business and vacated as quickly as I did just then. Saying I was quick even for myself is saying something, as few people can go faster than I can. Kris will confirm this. Just ask him what nickname he's given me with respect to my bowel movements. It has something to do with being the FPitW.

Yeah, so, I was fast. I had to be - that was my crap I was leaving alone.

I wasn't fast enough.

I dashed out of the bathroom just as the announcement, "Due to extra security measures and Washington state law, do not leave baggage unattended," began. The security person I eye-locked with on my way into the bathroom, was hovering over my bags as I left the bathroom. I wasn't sure exactly what he was about to say as he opened his mouth when I returned, but I preempted him quickly. "Oh! Thank you so much for watching my stuff. I was a little nervous about it. I REALLY appreciate it."

He looked at me, closed his mouth, looked at my stuff, back to me and said, "You're welcome."

When I sat down, I felt very much as I had when Jessica and I were refused entrance to the pool. Something like, "Well, crap."