My psych-up buddy made me cry this morning with last night's email. I told Kris about the crying. His reply went something like, "Are you crying? Are you CRYING? There's no crying in psych-up!" a takeoff of one of our favorite quotes from A League of Their Own when Tom Hanks' character says, "There's no crying in baseball!"
Ah, another baseball reference. My life is full of them.
I hope you've been having too much fun with Ben and Lisa in Seattle to
notice how late this note is. It's still technically Thursday though! And
this one will be longer than the others.
Have I told you that I can see the future? Here is the play-by-play for the
start of this weekend:
It's Saturday. Game day. You're getting ready with the team and you're
feeling...nervous. It's only natural. Regionals is a big weekend; these are
the games that count. Maybe you're worried that those injuries will flare
up. Perhaps you're thinking about how much wheat you've eaten lately. To
make matters worse, it's cold and rainy. Bleagh.
All of a sudden, you snap out of your funk and look around. You are
surrounded by a sea of red. Not a brooding maroon or a frivolous magenta.
No, a bright scarlet. It's in-your-face, take-no-prisoners, no-guts-no-glory
red. The color of blood, of fire engines, ripe apples, fire, life. Red is
not just what we see in anger, but also in passion. And we are nothing if
not passionate. We are Mischief and we are bound together by our insane
passion for ultimate. Every week we spend hours training our bodies,
analyzing the game, practicing our skills and counting down to the next time
we play. Now that is fucking love.
With these thoughts your body starts feeling warmer, softer, like butter
being spread on toast. You feel as if you've put on clothes straight from
the dryer. Yeah, sometimes these people damn near drive you insane but
you're comfortable with them; they are your friends as well as your
teammates.
A drill begins. Your body hesitates. Have we really finished warming up? Am
I ready?
There isn't time to doubt now. Only time to cut, catch and throw. You thrust
yourself onto the field and wait your turn at the drill.
Immediately as you begin running your legs spring away from the ground like
you were stung by get-up-and-go. You feel light and powerful. And best of
all you feel completely in control.
The disc goes up. It's coming hard and fast at your face. A normal person
would duck or put up a hand to block it. But you were never content with
normal, Kitt. Normal doesn't suit you, it bores you. So, using the leg
muscles you've built from those painful mornings at Velocity Sports, you
jump up and reach for the disc.
CLAP! That's the sound of a classic, confident pancake. The disc is in your
hands and you know exactly what to do with it. A split-second after your
beautiful catch, you've let off a marvelous throw for the score. Now that is
veteran decision-making.
TO BE CONTINUED...You'll notice that the scenario above is incomplete. I've
only described the part leading up to the first actual game.
Kitt, I know you will make some magic on the field this weekend and it would
take a gajillion hours to write about all the extraordinary things that
you'll do. So instead of telling you what those things are I'll end by
spelling out the Kitt Rules.
The Kitt Rules
- O: Whenever I am in the game I am running hard, going all-out. Every step
I take is part of a cut, whether in or long. Sure, I'll clear space for
others when it's right...but damnit, most of the time I'll be cutting like a
madwoman so they'd better put it to me.
- D: When I am supposed to be on defense I will play like I am on offense.
The disc belongs to me, not that girl on the other team. And I will make
sure she doesn't get it. It is MINE.
- Me: I will have utter faith in myself. I am always more amazing than I
know.
Go get'em.
Spub
