Monday, November 01, 2004
Ultimate Club Nationals: Sarasota, Florida
Travel
Skin glowing with heat under fading fall skies,
Bringing memories with me, I burn with sun
From inside, a conflagration from my eyes.
This is the hope from journeying beyond one place:
The warmth of knowing there are seasons, elsewhere,
That differ, keeping their own slow clockpulse.
Within me I can hold six suns, hold worlds.
Meteor, I race from soul to soul, a free traveler
In the wide space that is the inner universe.
How large I find myself, in these rare moments!
Under a gray sky I burst into sudden flower
From a thousand buds, each a center of summer,
But secret, held within; the soul's constellation.
This is the self, they murmur:
This is how we survive winter.
~
Nationals amazed me. All night last night, and while I slept on the plane yesterday, I dreamed of frisbees, sideline calls and full-field runs. I still can't believe the height of the jumps I saw in the men's finals game between Sockeye and JAM. I'll never forget the lean, long, tanned profiles of the women on Riot and Prime, their faces gaunt with strength, their bodies lengthened by our sport, which favors height and legginess. They stood on the line with their hair in double braids and ponytails and their cleats black and bright blue and their shorts hanging around their narrow hips. Joy and perfection. I darted up and down the line as the play proceeded, trying to catch every layout, every defensive play, every score. I chatted with the random ultimate players next to whom I stood, and we "talked shop," analyzing game details and deciding who we thought would win.
At the national level, ultimate differs from the casual, free-and-easy sport I've learned to love in pick-up games and summer league. Tension and focus reign in highly competitive ultimate. Everyone takes the matter so seriously and discusses strategy as though deciding federal policy. Yet many qualities remain -- like the friendly faces everywhere, the intelligence of many of those who play (I've met an uncanny number of graduate students, assistant professors, lawyers and writers -- to name just a few brainy professions -- in ultimate), and the sense that we're all together in the same endeavor. And it's inspiring to know exactly how far our bodies -- just us, little ordinary people who play a sport for joy -- can take us.
My team tired me out more than the playing did this weekend, and I'm glad our season is over. It's hard to struggle together with 17 women, each of us with our own motivations and personal envies and little problems and internal conflicts. We've had moments of camaraderie and others where we drove each other to passionate outbursts of tears. My advisor calls some women "guy's girls" and overall, I guess that's me; I'll always prefer playing with the boys. But I'd not have missed this for the world.
Results can be found here, if you're interested:
Ultimate Club Nationals Results
Autumn field work
from 10/21/04.
Today, in the field with Lixin and a Slovenian student, Tiasha, I stood a little apart, gazing out over the late October fields, their grass a patchwork of brown and fading green, here tilled soil, there long grass, and farther on, the straight golden stalks of aged corn. I walked toward a stand of pine to relieve myself, feeling my boots crunch on the good earth below them, under a heavy gray sky that lit the changing sugar maples with a faded glow. Flocks of unidentifiable little birds blew over the fields, searching for seed. Two sandhill cranes walked haltingly past us, one pausing to scratch its head in a momentary display of trust. I stood among the pines, breathing in their dim green, and gazed out over the empty fields beyond. A large flock of starlings, somewhere in far-off trees, chattered in great multiplicity.
I felt free again, breathing in the cold, damp air. I felt so calm and solitary; so internal and self-possessed, and yet also entirely outside myself, a part of the empty, wild surroundings.
In the square chamber dug into the earth, walled by metal and accessed by a heavy metal door in the ground, Lixin stood, pulling gas samples into a syringe from flexible rubber tubes that protruded from the walls. She smiled up at Tiasha and me as we sat cross-legged above her at the opening, chatting with her. In her red turtleneck and lined brown pants that accentuated her little form, she looked practical and sturdy, friendly and capable. Tiasha and I took bottles of water from her back to the van, and stood at its several doors, filling sample bottles and measuring pH. We felt, I think, able and female together, the three of us. Tiasha, with her untidy blonde hair and her narrow, not unhandsome face, gave off an aura of sharp capability. We two self-possessed souls approached each other in utter surety, found the other equally sure, and fell into a comfortable mutual reliance, each giving up tasks to the other quickly and easily as we found them ably performed. The tasks were simple, to be sure, but I felt she and I could have worked effectively under many circumstances. I liked the way our joint dominance vied temporarily, then found, rather than a competitor, an equal.
On returning to the Kellogg Biostation central building, Tiasha walked down to Gull Lake to take photographs and wander around the lake, in her hiking boots and with her wool, hooded jacket tucked round her form. The maples stood ponderous and glowing in pink and orange and coral, their trunks girded with the rumpled wood of many years' growth. Lixin and I returned a bit of equipment inside.
At lunch, we had sat with S and his wife, Susanne. They told us stories of their research in Brazil and Peru and Michigan. Both tall and spare, with quiet eyes, they pleased me. Susanne had short, salt and pepper hair and a straight nose, and though she looked so athletic and competent she followed her husband with a look of deep, intertwined and almost submissive love in her body language and her face. He, wearing glasses and an ever so slightly scattered demeanor, nontheless inspired trust somehow as he helped us load soil cores into our van. On our drive home, we passed Susanne on her bicycle, the long lines of her leggings further accentuating her height, her legs pumping as she sped up the road and vanished along the straight avenue of trees.
Rural Michigan contains a calm beauty unlike the startling richness of New Hampshire. In New Hampshire, one senses a hardness, a spareness, a reluctance to give fruit underneath the glittering gorgeousness. The soil lies brittle and thin atop great, jutting rocks whose presence can always be felt. Michigan exudes a sense of abundance and fertility. Birds wash past in the autumn and spring, journeying along the migration belt, and the chatter of their search for autumn's fruit can always be heard.
Today, in the field with Lixin and a Slovenian student, Tiasha, I stood a little apart, gazing out over the late October fields, their grass a patchwork of brown and fading green, here tilled soil, there long grass, and farther on, the straight golden stalks of aged corn. I walked toward a stand of pine to relieve myself, feeling my boots crunch on the good earth below them, under a heavy gray sky that lit the changing sugar maples with a faded glow. Flocks of unidentifiable little birds blew over the fields, searching for seed. Two sandhill cranes walked haltingly past us, one pausing to scratch its head in a momentary display of trust. I stood among the pines, breathing in their dim green, and gazed out over the empty fields beyond. A large flock of starlings, somewhere in far-off trees, chattered in great multiplicity.
I felt free again, breathing in the cold, damp air. I felt so calm and solitary; so internal and self-possessed, and yet also entirely outside myself, a part of the empty, wild surroundings.
In the square chamber dug into the earth, walled by metal and accessed by a heavy metal door in the ground, Lixin stood, pulling gas samples into a syringe from flexible rubber tubes that protruded from the walls. She smiled up at Tiasha and me as we sat cross-legged above her at the opening, chatting with her. In her red turtleneck and lined brown pants that accentuated her little form, she looked practical and sturdy, friendly and capable. Tiasha and I took bottles of water from her back to the van, and stood at its several doors, filling sample bottles and measuring pH. We felt, I think, able and female together, the three of us. Tiasha, with her untidy blonde hair and her narrow, not unhandsome face, gave off an aura of sharp capability. We two self-possessed souls approached each other in utter surety, found the other equally sure, and fell into a comfortable mutual reliance, each giving up tasks to the other quickly and easily as we found them ably performed. The tasks were simple, to be sure, but I felt she and I could have worked effectively under many circumstances. I liked the way our joint dominance vied temporarily, then found, rather than a competitor, an equal.
On returning to the Kellogg Biostation central building, Tiasha walked down to Gull Lake to take photographs and wander around the lake, in her hiking boots and with her wool, hooded jacket tucked round her form. The maples stood ponderous and glowing in pink and orange and coral, their trunks girded with the rumpled wood of many years' growth. Lixin and I returned a bit of equipment inside.
At lunch, we had sat with S and his wife, Susanne. They told us stories of their research in Brazil and Peru and Michigan. Both tall and spare, with quiet eyes, they pleased me. Susanne had short, salt and pepper hair and a straight nose, and though she looked so athletic and competent she followed her husband with a look of deep, intertwined and almost submissive love in her body language and her face. He, wearing glasses and an ever so slightly scattered demeanor, nontheless inspired trust somehow as he helped us load soil cores into our van. On our drive home, we passed Susanne on her bicycle, the long lines of her leggings further accentuating her height, her legs pumping as she sped up the road and vanished along the straight avenue of trees.
Rural Michigan contains a calm beauty unlike the startling richness of New Hampshire. In New Hampshire, one senses a hardness, a spareness, a reluctance to give fruit underneath the glittering gorgeousness. The soil lies brittle and thin atop great, jutting rocks whose presence can always be felt. Michigan exudes a sense of abundance and fertility. Birds wash past in the autumn and spring, journeying along the migration belt, and the chatter of their search for autumn's fruit can always be heard.
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