Last week's instant karma was, "Give yourself freedom to fail." I managed to use this when I was playing at Potlatch this past weekend. It helped: both Jane and Mark independently told me they have never seen me play better than I played this weekend. I'm very happy to hear those words.

I used that mantra and two others to help me before the start of every game and the start of every point I played. I'm guessing it helped based on Mark and Jane's comments.

Before the second game on Saturday, which was also the second game of the tournament, at the end of the team warmups, someone (I think it was Kris) said, "Do whatever it takes to psych yourself up." I'm surprised I heard the words: they weren't said loudly. But, I took them to heart.

At the beginning of every point, as I stood on the line waiting for the pull, I gave myself the freedom to fail (fail to defend fully, fail to throw the perfect throw, fail to make the perfect catch). And then I did whatever it took to psych myself up, which meant deciding to play hard.

The difference between deciding to play hard and making no decision is a big deal. The team's energy helps in making that decision. If the team is excited to play hard, then playing harder is easier, but it still has to be an individual's (conscious or unconscious) decision to play harder. On the line, I chose to play harder.

Mid-Sunday, I added a third line to my mental chatter on the line, waiting for a pull. During a point, after a turnover, I was jogging back to the stack, when I heard Kris' voice from the sideline: "Run hard."

At the time I wasn't sure if he was talking directly to me, or the team as a whole, but I always seem to hear his voice over the rush of the game and the cacophany of the crowd. Run hard.

And I did.

I ran as hard as I could that possession. I ran as hard as I could that point. I ran as hard as I could that game.

And at the end of that game, after we had won, sitting tired and exhausted in the circle talking about the game and the day, Jane came up to me and said she had never seen me play so well. I had become, in her words, one of those wily veteran handler types.

Thank you, Jane. Those words mean so much to me.

We ended up ranked 16th at the beginning of the third day. Our first game of the day was against Team USA, who was ranked first for the tournament, having been ranked first for the whole tournament. We played scared. I dropped an easy disc thrown to me, but caused a turnover with an aggressive mark. We lost 15-7, handily beating the over/under betting score of 4.

Our next game was against Brass Monkey, who had spent most of the morning before the first game complaining they should be ranked higher than 9th. In as much as they lost the 8 vs 9 game first thing in the morning, I had to agree with the tournament organizers in their ranking.

Worse for them, we beat them by two points, to send them down into the 13-16 rankings, as we climbed up to the 9-12 rankings. The worst we could do was 12th. Hot Damn.

I continued to give myself the freedom to fail, do whatever I needed to do to psyche myself up, and run hard. I had a great time. Mischief finished 10th out of 100 teams. And I had the best tournament of my life.

Maybe there's something to this self-forgiveness: allowing myself the freedom to fail and discovering I can succeed.

Good lord, person, if you're in a meeting with a client, don't answer your cell phone, talk for 2 minutes, then tell your caller you're in a meeting can you talk to him later.

Just don't answer the phone in the first place.

Better yet, turn your phone to vibrate or off.

Answering the phone is incredibly disrespectful. Learn to respect the time of the people you're in the meeting with.

[Okay, sure, if it's an emergency, fine, but announce before the meeting starts that you're expecting an emergency call. Jerk.]

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.