Here's the part not publically available:

When I applied for the team, I made it very clear that I would be thrilled to be even an alternate on the team. Being an alternate would have meant that I would have to pay significantly more for my trip, as my hotel costs would not have been paid for as they are for the team members, but that would have meant little for the honor.

Apparently some of the other alternates didn't think so. Two weren't planning on going until they hooked up (including the sex part) and one of them made the team because of an injury. Suddenly the other one has to go. At the last minute. Did I mention that the woman of this relationship dumped another player on the team? How distracted was this guy, I wonder.

This Team USA just plain sucks. Their attitude sucks. Their commitment sucks. Their maturity sucks. Part of me is still bitter, but part of me is angry. Angry at the lost opportunity for the sport I love.

As I'm sitting here near the end of my work day, I can see one of the silver medals won by Team USA at the 2001 World Games in Akita, Japan.

It's a lovely medal: big, hefty, detailed, shiny.

And silver.

I look at it and wonder about this year's Team USA. From the rumors I've heard and the stories told directly to me, I have to officially predict another shiny silver medal for the team I so desperately wanted to be on.

Team USA (that would be the self-proclaimed premier ultimate team of the United States) lost in the semi-finals at Potlatch two weekends ago. Given the personalities on the team, I guess I shouldn't be surprised:

From the coach of the team, on the UPA's site:

On Friday night most of Team USA gathered for a pre-tourney dinner and then continued on with some libations. Those of us still operating on east coast time—or those not fully willing to join the sub-group of our team known as “team evil”—went to sleep. Others (far more evil) stayed out until last call. The core of evil ended up hot-tubbing in the building where Kati Halmos lives. I don’t have the details on how Kati’s condo mates felt about having Alex Nord running the hallways at five A.M., but I am pretty sure the almighty’s name was soon invoked.

Emphasis mine.

Sure, the tournament was supposed to be a fun tournament, a chance to lighten up and play some fun ultimate.

But, they lost in the semi-finals to another American team.

They lost. In the semis.

As ambassadors of my sport, for my country, this freaking sucks. You are supposed to be representatives for ultimate, not a bunch of over-confident, hung-over, undisciplined lushes.

That the team selected thinks drinking and hot-tubbing is more important than playing a tournament well is wrong. That even the coach thinks partying all night and getting drunk is okay and even encouraged, is wrong.

Potlatch was a tournament to practice, to learn how to play with the other players who, up until this point have probably been opponents, to finetune the offense, to learn where the weak points are on the team and how to minimize them. This isn't a tournament to get drunk every single freakin' night (read the rest of the coach's entry).

So here are my words to Team USA. $1 says you'll never hear them:

You suck.

Those words don't go out to all the members of the team. Those who went to bed early, played well, drank little, worked hard, and practiced diplomacy, I would say, "Thanks," and a big "Good luck! You, I'll be cheering for."

While at a Wild Oats today for lunch, I watched a woman at the salad bar spill the entire two foot pile of take-away containers. I was standing half way down the salad bar when a clatter pulled my attention to the end of the bar. I turned to look at the cacophany, and watched in suppressed amusement as the woman attempted to catch the falling containers, mostly by knocking over the next stack of containers.

As I wondered how embarassed she must be feeling, I noticed she was looking around furtively. "More than a little bit," I thought.

I finished filling up my salad container, dressing and all, and started filling up a second container for a coworker who, due to time constraints, was unable to pick up lunch for herself. At the end of the bar were the dressings. After pondering for a moment which dressing my coworker would like, I decided on the ranch dressing.

I'm never sure how much dressings separate, so I pretty much always shake them. I picked up the large container of ranch dressing and tightened the lid. You can never be too sure, you know. The container was fairly big, so I grabbed it with both hands, and started shaking.

After the first shake, I realized the viscosity of the ranch dressing was pretty high, so I put my whole body into this shake. I figured three really good shakes and it'll be well mixed.

One ...

Two ...

BLURP!

Turns out, the cap was a flip top, and not a screw on lid.

I had just sprayed ranch dressing all over the bar, the counter, my salad, my arms and my shoes.

I looked up to see the container lady smiling at me.

"It's the salad bar."

Heh. Yeah.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Thrice damned mother fucker.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

3-3, I think.