I killed a bird today.

Quite by accident and terribly unexpected.

I was driving home along the sidestreet, actually driving the speed limit, as I was listening to something I wanted to be sure to hear all of (I actually think it was someone speaking at the Roberts confirmation hearing, someone being a moron with something like, "You agree Congress has the right to adjust the size of the Supreme Court, that's Congress, because you know that the Constitution gives Congress this power, and Congress has it." Or something annoying like that. Must have been a Congressman.).

As I passed the street three blocks over, I glanced down and to the left, just as a pigeon (stupid bird) started walking out of the path of the car.

This brilliant ("Brilliant!") bird decided to wait until the last possible moment to start moving, then move in the worst possible way: by waddling.

POOF!

I hit it.

I didn't hear the thump, but I did see the expanse of feathers behind my car, and the rolling body as it tumbled to the other side of the road.

Aw, geez. Bird! WTF!?!

Later that evening, I was thinking about that bird as I made dinner for the Communal Dinner of Wednesday Night™. We hadn't had communal dinner in several weeks, as various other events usurped our normal time. The Chateau's oven was out, so I cooked at home instead of trying to make chicken divan in a toaster over (though the recipe book did include microwave directions, oddly enough).

I was cutting up the chicken for the divan, and pondering: truly what was the difference between the pigeon which I had killed earlier in the day with my car, and the chicken which was killed by proxy for me to eat tonight?

Both were birds. Both were dead. One was providing nutrition, the other a starting point for a philosophical diversion that would probably end in some religious statement I'd regret in twenty years when I decide to run for office.

Point was, there really wasn't much difference. They were both dead.

And while I was pondering the chicken and the pigeon, I couldn't help but wonder what percentage of pro-life people are vegetarian. Because, if I understand the arguments properly, and pro-lifers believe sustainable life begins sometime after DNA merger, and removing a collection of cells that grow from said merger (a collection that cannot exist outside a particular organ of a woman's body) is amoral (regardless of the fact that the removal of any similarly sized collection of cells will result in the same cellular death), and they also believe that such removal of cells is the taking of a life, wouldn't they also believe that the killing of an animal is wrong, too?

And, if that is the case, wouldn't they all be vegetarian?

Which got me to thinking that they might just believe that book that says, in the first subbook, somewhere near the label "1:26"

And God said, Let Us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

which some interpret to be, "Yo, we can eat them." instead of "Hey, we have stewardship, we should take care of them." And they go about eating these animals.

Ah, the Word of God™.

And at this point, I was wondering why people use that particular collection of children's bedtime stories and collection of historical drival written by man and selected by man (there were many other Biblical writings that didn't make it into the "Official Bible") as a foundation for some belief system and fanatic cult.

And that's sure to rile up the last two members of my readership.

Or maybe they'll realize that I just don't get it. I don't understand why. I don't understand how. I don't get the God religions: Judism, Islam, Christianity (all with the same roots, people, did you forget that part?). There are parts that are, sure, a good blueprint for living well, but there are parts that make zero (negative!) sense.

So, my dead bird lead me to yet another, "I don't get it" moment in the kitchen, pondering the inexplicable moments of life.

Last year, at an ultimate tournament I didn't go to, there was an incident wherein a woman was body slammed by an opponent and flipped out when the opponent landed on her. According to eye witnesses, the rugby tackling player had been playing the whole day aggressively and the squished, soon to be freaking out woman had been the recipient of the unsportsmanlike conduct for a while.

None-the-less, when the squishee was squished by the squishor, the squishee freaked out, stood up by pushing the squishor off of her and started flailing.

Most flailing involves throwing arms around wildly and kicking.

Ah, the kicking.

The squishee did indeed start kicking the squishor, and had started kicking her in the face. The squishor, according to the reports, curled into a fetal position and attempted to ward off the kicks and the blows, covering her face as best as possible.

While relating this story to my teammates at Sectionals yesterday, I heard Mark mutter, "Fetal position?"

I finished my story, and asked him what was up. We started talking about how, if you're caught unawares, you might not have the presense of mind to move away from the blows, and would instinctively cover your face for protection. But why not just spin away? Or grab the leg? Do something to stop the barrage of blows, instead of trying to absorb them.

"How bad could it be?" Mark wondered out loud.

Somehow, I have no idea how, Mark arranged to have Heidi, while wearing cleats, attempt to kick him in the face after Sectionals were over. Had the team heckled him into it? Had he decided that empirical evidence was necessary and Heidi was of similar size to the kicking squishee?

Unclear, but the experiment was going to happen.

Well, push comes to shove, and at the end of the last game of the day, when we're all getting ready to leave, packing up and such, Wes calls Mark out, "Hey, Mark, aren't you supposed to be kicked by Heidi? Heidi, do you still have your cleats on?"

Heidi had no desire to kick Mark in the face. What a scandal! Deliberately kick someone in the face? That's awful! No, can't do it.

I could.

I immediately volunteered to help Mark in his fetal position, how hard could it be to defend the blows and spin away experiment. I had enough rough-housing with my brothers to swing a good kick without feeling (too) bad about it, and I had heard enough stories of Mark and his brothers (I could get a good kick in for Kyle and Kevin!) to have exactly zero bad feelings about landing one kick.

So, after the reasonable, "I take no responsibility for any damage I may cause you in this attempt. You agree not to hold me liable for any permanent injuries you may sustain." agreements with witnesses, Mark assumed the fetal position. I stood over him, and on the 3, 2, 1 countdown, kicked.

My first swing was with my right foot, which Mark blocked somewhat easily, and I missed his chin. So, I immediately stepped down with that foot, and swung forward with the left foot.

And clocked him right on the nose.

Full squish. Big cheer from the crowd! Contact!

He spun away faster than I could swing again with my right foot.

Upon standing and verifying he was okay, he explained he could defend the blows, but he had mis-estimated the amount of effort needed to stop the kicks. The first one was low on his elbows, the second one higher on his forearms, which is why it connected.

Spinning away as quickly as possible seems the best option.

But I can still say I kicked a Smith in the face.

What a ride!

Mischief finished second in the (full title here) Ultimate Players Association Club Championship Series Northern California Mixed Sectionals (whew!) in Santa Cruz this past weekend.

Second! Whoo!

Here's how Sunday went:

Since we had won our pool on Saturday, we were playing in the semis against Brass Monkey. We've played them four times before this season, always giving them a good game. In "first games of the day," as this one was, we were 2-0 against Brass Monkey. Overall, however, we were 2-2, I believe, for the season. We knew we had a shot in this first game, if we could catch them flat footed, before they woke up.

Kris and I were talking about the game, and we weren't quite sure how we wanted it to go. Of course, we wanted to win. Who wouldn't want to win. But we knew that the team puts high expectations on itself when we do well, which can lead to our downfall. We peaked at Sectionals in 2003, we don't want to peak too early again.

So, maybe, just maybe, it would be better to lose the first game to get us hungry for the next one.

Maybe.

But not like we did.

We came out hard, on fire, intense for the first half of the game. We traded points for a few, then went up big to take half 8-6, then the biggest lead at 10-6.

Did I mention Brass Monkey isn't a first game of the day team?

Yeah, well, they woke up.

And they woke up angry.

In a completely embarrassing, I can't believe I'm about to document this for myself when I read this in 10 years way, we stopped playing. We froze. We crumbled.

And they scored 9. Friggin'. Points. In. A. Row.

In. A. Row.

We lost 10-15.

And were devastated. Sure, we often let teams come back to make a game close when we're up big. But not 9 points in a row to win it. They woke up. They started playing zone. They started running harder. We didn't adjust. Fundamentally we didn't "fucking recognize!" the situation and couldn't stop the hemmorhaging. And lost.

The energy of the team at that point was the lowest we've been all season. Losing is one thing. Losing by a 9 point run by the other team is another.

To their credit, Brass Monkey came over and cheered us. When they first came over, we were thinking, "Come on, leave us alone. Can't you just let it go?" By the end, our spirits had lifted somewhat.

Earlier in the tournament, Feral Cows, the 8th place seed with hopes of going to Regionals, had lost to CTR, the 9th place seed and a former Nationals-level team. Instead of recognizing in 10 games, they'll lose half of them to CTR, but they can still beat the next team in their pool and make Regionals, they crumbled. They lost to the eventual 19th place team (out of 20) in the next round and hand to fight back to the 10th place overall.

We knew of Cows fate, and didn't want it to happen to us. Yes, we knew we were going to Regionals, our Saturday finish insured that, but we wanted more. We didn't want to go in 6th seed. Brass Monkey's cheer helped us out of the loss-funk to get us back in playing form.

We beat the next team, Wagon, in a snippy, physical, double-game point game 15-14. Oh, that was a fun game. Well, the part I was awake for. I slept through the second half of the game as the painkillers I was taking hit me full blast and I couldn't stay awake. Winning the game, which I woke up just in time to witness, put us into the 2-5 place bracket instead of the 4-7 bracket, and gave us our next opponent: Beer Run.

As mentioned every chance we get, it seems we always play Beer Run or Bender. This weekend, we managed both.

We didn't play well in the beginning, and by 5-10, most everyone had given up. Kris decided it was time to put in the second line and give our top line a rest. He started to call in the second string players.

But no one had told them we were done. No one had told them we had given up. No one told them we were looking to the next game.

They scored.

Kris left them in, and they scored again.

And again.

And again.

They kept scoring. They tied the game. Beer Run scored again. We answered with our own.

We played with heart. The heart we seemed to be missing when we were down. The heart that carried us in other close games.

We won on double game point, putting us in the backdoor 2-3 game against Red Fish Blue Fish who had lost in the finals against Brass Monkey.

And Heidi had caught the score to start our run.

Our fourth and final game was against Red Fish Blue Fish. We knew they would play zone on us. We knew that was the weakest part of our game. We knew they had recruited some amazing players this season.

We also knew we had better athleticism. We also knew we wanted this game more than they did.

The highest point of the game for me was cutting in from the back of the stack, shredding the switching defense and catching a bullet swing pass from Kris. Kris had zinged in it hard, and thought, "Yeah, babe!" when I caught it. I turned and swung the disc to Heidi who continued the pass, assisting on the assist for a score. When I left the field, I thought, "Huh. My hands hurt." Kris later explained he threw that pass very, very hard in order to avoid two men poachers in the area. Zing!

The lowest point of the game for me was during the receiving end of a run-through D on zone when I was caught flat-footed. As Kate says, if we had lost that game, that play would be in a continual loop in my head for the next four days.

Fortunately, that wasn't the case, and we won 13-11.

We finished 2nd in a pool of 20 teams. Shirley was an incredible rock star. I think she's our MVP of the weekend. She rocks!

We're heading to Regionals!

(Please let this not be the peak of our season. Please, oh, please!)

What a ride!

Mischief finished second in the (full title here) Ultimate Players Association Club Championship Series Northern California Mixed Sectionals (whew!) in Santa Cruz this past weekend.

Second! Whoo!

Here's how Saturday went:

We started off seeded fifth. Fifth, and lacking a whole lot of our usual Mischief love. I'd guess the problem was essentially high expectations (and the pressures associated with them) and accumulating injuries. Throw in a little personality conflicts, a bit of differing priorities, an overworked leadership structure, and you have a whole little love.

We started off rough on Saturday morning against Blammo. We had last played Blammo in Ashland, Oregon, at Cramp-Up in May, and had a rough time playing them then, too. Admittedly, we had our B roster at Cramp-Up. But, truly, that's just making up excuses. We started off very slowly against them on Saturday morning, dropping throws, throwing away discs, and miscommunicating everywhere. Sheer athleticism enabled us to win that game 10-6.

Our next game against BTP ultimate was much easier. We had warmed up and were ready to play. The score was around 13-3 -/+, us, when the game was over.

After our next round bye, we played the Naturals of San Diego. One of our teammates, Chucky, who attends UC San Diego recognized 3 of the players as ex-captains of the UCSD Air Squids, the open college ultimate team, so we weren't sure what to expect. The 13-4 win was good.

Our last game was against Bender. Bender. Bender, who we seem to play at every tournament. Either Bender or Beer Run, every tournament. It gets tiring playing the same team all the time. We were very, very amped for this game. Not only were we gunning for the top seed in our pool, hence the easier run on Sunday, but we were seeking redemption on their insistence on being the 4th seed at the tournament, bumping us down to 5th from 4th.

Kris correctly rationalized the two games - bye - two games format the 5th place team had on Saturday was much better for our team than the bye - four games format the 4th place team had, and didn't contest the switch of us to 5th place. 4th and 5th played each other in the final round of the day, so why not take the bye?

From the chatter on the sidelines, it was clear that Mischief was hungry, and Bender wasn't going to win this one.

We ended our 4-0 day with a 12-6 trouncing of Bender, and celebrated at 99 Bottles.

When Sam came to visit, he arrived with a box from Mom and Eric. The box was intended to help Sam transistion into being away from his family (and with his crazy auntie), by distracting him for a little bit.

From that box, came the five dollars that made him the richest man in the world. Also in the box was Six-Wheeler.

Six-Wheeler is a little plastic guy on a motorcycle, who stayed nominally upright at lower speeds, and tumbled at higher speeds.

When Kris came home the evening of Sam's arrival, he heard of all the details of the box and Sam's first day. When the, then unnamed, Six-Wheeler came out, Kris was excited.

"Ooooooo! What's his name? Crazy Motorcycle Mike?"

Sam looked up at Kris like he was retarded.

"Noooo-ooooo-oooo," in the way only a five year old looking at the idiot adult can say no in three syllables. "His name is Four Wheeler."

"Four Wheeler? Why is he Four Wheeler?"

"Because he has four wheels." Sam replied, turning over the toy. "One, two, three, four, ..."

Sam paused.

"... five, six. His name is Six Wheeler."

So now we had a name for the toy. Six Wheeler.

Six Wheeler spent the next several hours zooming all over the house, usually chasing Annie, but mostly tumbling around, not quite riding anywhere. A small bump in the floor, usually between boards of the hardwood slats, would send him flipping end over end.

In exasperation, Sam commented, "Six Wheeler keeps dying."

Pause.

"He's dumb. He's just dumb."

Which has since become a favorite saying around here. When someone does something idiotic, moronic or even mildly stupid, well, "He's just dumb."

Entertainly enough, there's a lot of "just dumb" around here.