I Guess I'm a Real Sheep Farmer Now


Well, it's not like Melissa didn't warn me.

I was out in the east pasture with the herd, same as I had done a dozen times before. I was careful not to turn my back on the sheep, walk along the edge of the pasture so that the sheep were always in front of me, and always carry a stick. Jack told me he carries a stick, very important to carry a stick. I was carrying a stick.

However, I wasn't carrying a big enough stick.

After holding down a tree for the sheep to eat the leaves, I was walking back to the gate when I noticed the ram backing up. I looked over at him and realized he was going to charge me. The stick I had was about a foot long, not enough to scare away or even mildly deter the ram. I had let my guard down, and this damn sheep was going to ram me.

Which he did. Despite my yelling, "No. No! NO!" and shaking that damn, small, completely inadequate stick at the sheep.

F'ing disc width


Patrick Hard came to mind again today, as I was playing ultimate this evening. I kept thinking, I don't like who I become when I play ultimate [in certain circumstances], thinking of how Patrick stopped playing open because he didn't like who he became when he played open.

When we arrived at the game tonight, the score was already 4-0, good guys winning, and it didn't improve much for the other team in any appreciable way after we started playing. The good-guys team was playing a woman down, as only two women were there, and I was going to be the third, so zone was clearly working for the team, and not working for the other team.

Teams, like people, tend to focus on one thing and ride it, er, obsess on it, for all it's worth. The opposing team was no exception. Their obsession was one of those rules that very, very few people even notice, and only beginning teams pay attention to. Their obsession?

Disc width.

Right. Disc width. One of those calls that no one who can throw makes.

They called disc width a number of times on one of our women players who was marking the thrower, clam in a zone actually. She didn't know what was going on, so they would call it repeatedly. After the third or fourth instance, I yelled back, "You're fine! You're more than a disc width away from him!" to which one of their teammates called to me, "She can't wrap her arms around the thrower."

This is true, she's not allowed to. She also wasn't.



I was holding my shit just fine for a short while, and then the main woman handler called disc width on me.

When I was an arm length away from her.

There are some things I find inexcusable. One of those is bad sportsmanship on a team beating another team 9-0. I was that bad sportsman tonight. I ignored her, as she was clearly in the wrong, and kept counting. Even if I disagreed with her call, the correct actions were contest or drop two counts and keep going.

I did neither, and kept counting. She called double team again. I stood up from my mark, called violation, and she threw the disc. It came back, and explained to her, "THIS," holding the disc between us, "is disc width," and stepped back to where I was marking, "and this is not." I continued, "I don't care how big your boobs are, or how big my boobs are, even at the narrowest point, we were still more than a disc width apart. Learn your distances," and handed the disc back to her.

I then went round-the-world on her, and marked as hard as I could. It pissed me off that every single other person on the field was standing still, flat footed as we moved. One guy even laughed at my marking, which only served to piss me off even more. The woman complained about my arms being in her way, when neither were they in her way, nor was she even fucking pivoting. She stood there like a blob and spun around.

Give me a fucking break.

If you're going to make bad calls, at least have the skill to fucking back them up.

Given that their whole team was travelling left and right, never bringing the disc up to the line, bringing it to the line 2 meters off from straight up, and running with the disc after catching when they didn't need to take any steps to stop, and making these dumb-ass calls, I did the only thing I could do to stop being a raging bitch.

I left the field.

I left the field, took myself out of play, left my other teammates hanging since we didn't have any subs, and sat at the sideline.

What the fuck was going on? We were winning 9-0, I DIDN'T CARE ABOUT THIS GAME. What was wrong?

I found out about an hour later, when my vision disappeared. That rage? Hello, migraine.

So, I am now 3 for 3 with migraines after ultimate. I even jogged today during the game. I took it easy. I sandbagged. I didn't run hard except for maybe one or two sprints tonight, and I still triggered a migraine. My inexcusable behavior has an excuse, the migraine, and it feels dirty to forgive that behavior. I wouldn't have it from any of my team when I was coaching, I shouldn't have it in myself.

Worse, I injured both of my achilles.

I am now blind, hobbled, and in so much pain from the daggers stabbing in my head that, well, come near me and I'll show you what a raging bitch can be. In the meantime, yeah, to the woman who can't throw, can't pivot, and doesn't know the rules, yeah, I'm sorry for my behavior.

Image of my cleats

Infinite levels of crapola


Three weeks before Sectionals, so part of me should be infinitely careful woth my physical well being. Three (two?) sectionals in a row with injuries, and you'd think I'd be more cautious with my muscles and joints.

But no.

Second drill, having felt very good through the warmups, and the first drill, second run, where we were practicing the give and go, the going on the mark after a throw, which I athink I'm actually good at, and *zing* pulled right quad.

At least it wasn't the left leg, as every other injury aeems to be. It's still an injury, though.

I'm frustrated. I cried.

I'm tired of sucking at this game. I'm tired of working my ass off and being injured. I'm tired of every telling me everything I'm doing wrong. I'm tired of not being quick, or skilled, or useful.

I'm tired of playing an entire game without once touching the disc.

I should have retired two years ago when the sport broke my heart. I wish I'd had the strength and wisdom then to leave, instead of torturing myself with self-doubt and self-frustration.

At least now Kris agrees this will be our last year at elite. I wonder if we'll keep playing at some other level.

So much for playing


I'm really beginning to hate the month before Sectionals, the Labor Day tournament in particular. Last year, I had to play on lots of (admittedly OTC) painkillers. The year before I broke four ribs the week after the tournament. The year before, playing Donner, I tripped in a hole at the tournament and sprained my ankle bad enough to require weeks of physical therapy.

So, this year?

Another sprained ankle, tripping in a hole on the mini field we were warming up in.

The team did a great job at taking care of me. So good, as a matter of fact, that at the end of the day, other than the sharp pain at the extreme flexes, I couldn't tell I had injured my ankle.

Mistake, because I had clearly injured my ankle. This morning, when I woke up after half a night without ankle compression. my ankle was huge, with a black, brown and blue ring around it. My mobility with the ankle gone, too.

So, yeah, once again, RICE before Sectionals. Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. More like, SLOB. Slow. Lethargic. Old. Bored.