A note of context: I played ultimate competitively for a long time, and this newsletter began as an effort to examine life through the lens of the sport.
For those not in the ultimate world, this past weekend was Regionals in most places around the country. That means that for all but the handful of teams that advanced to Nationals, the competitive year is over.
You already know what I think: there’s a lot more to the game than just the game.
Season’s end
If you’d like a visual, it’s a cutter, there in the lane one moment
and cleared out a stall or two later.
What had been the object of my focus is no more.
The months leading up to our wedding were full.
Planning, prep, anticipation,
all increasing in frequency as the big day drew near.
I felt aimless after it was done:
a feeling I knew from those days that’d follow the last tournament of the year.
What am I anchored to now?
Here’s another one: When my dad died,
there was a giant release.
So much had gone into attending to him,
planning around him,
feeling the reality of what was impossible.
By no means am I glad that he’s gone. But
I am totally aware of the space that opened up in my life
when his journey ended.
Our energy is finite
(in most senses).
It can only go so many places in so much time.
And when that thing—
the season, the coming wedding, the ailing family member—
when that thing with such gravitational pull…
when it’s gone, which does tend to happen suddenly, even if you see it coming…
once it’s not there,
the landscape changes.
There’s dizziness and confusion and haplessness.
There’s grieving to be done.
There are new possibilities, too. Chances to reinvent myself.
Let go, or you can’t grab onto
whatever’s next.
Whatever’s meant
for the new you.
Of course, it’s not that simple. Maybe what’s next isn’t some kind of blossoming. A neighbor recently commented to me about how this sloping yard is held in place by the tree roots under the ground. Cut down the trees and a landslide may be on the way.
Maybe it’s like that.
Scaffolding
The season can be life’s scaffolding. When it ends, everything gets wobbly.
Are open space and empty space the same thing?
2016 was the best year of my on-field career. I trained non-stop, hitting the gym at midnight sometimes. I started a shuttle program after Labor Day for an extra boost. I’ve never been so resolute to cover pulls. There was this one turn I forced against Revolver– the stingiest offense around– that made me so proud.
I poured everything I had into frisbee that year, and there was a reason for that. Early on, in January, I found out what my dad had done: taken out two credit cards in my name and racked up more debt than I knew what to do with. It was a primary relationship in my life, and the bottom fell out.
Frisbee stitched together the rage, the letdown, the confusion. A teammate, after I told him, when we were resting between sets in that at-home basement gym that became my hiding place, said to me: we will get through this.
“We.” I’m still so struck by that.
That was probably the most talented team I’ve ever been on. Nationals didn’t go our way, though. We weren’t so great in the wind, and Ring had something we did not.
On a Saturday afternoon, a week after that last tournament, I put on my headphones and hoodie and started to wander.
What I felt at first was the vacuum, the relief, the newness– I am not playing ultimate fright now, and I will not for months.
Next came the weight of what the floodwall had been holding back.
There are plenty times when it doesn’t end, too. Perhaps things remain in place, whether as expected or by miracle. Maybe it’s still until they close the curtain…
I wrote what’s below for my brother, as an ode to what is a very wonderful achievement for him and his teammates. I wrote it for myself, too. As a reminder.
About Nationals
What has happened is very precious. It may never happen again.
You know this because you have spent over a decade chasing it.
Ten years is a long time.
The Beatles were together for what? 7? 8?
Do something special for yourself.
More importantly, do something special for it.
This experience, this opportunity—it is giving itself to you.
How will you return that? What is your responsibility there?
A lot of what's out there tells us that we should just take, take, take.
But I have found that there is something empty in that—the relationship is not right without reciprocity.
It can be simple. Simple is best.
Maybe you cut out sugar until the season's over.
You could set an early alarm and rise to it every day,
or find a nightly stretch routine that you make yours for the coming 3 weeks.
Create a ritual, is what I'm saying.
Some kind of left, right, left, right march.
Give your devotion.
This will guarantee you almost nothing, as you know.
All you have is what it has given you to this point.
If you demand more, can you really say you love it?
Even so. Dedicate yourself, and by that I mean sacrifice a little something extra, even if it is just the warmth under the blankets when it's barely light outside.
In this, you will be praying.
And in this prayer, you will further clarify,
to yourself and to this gift:
I am ready.
Once more,
for a few more weeks,
I give myself to you.
Do this, and it will love you back.
Good luck with whatever’s next.
-Jonathan
Thanks for your words, Jonathan. As someone who just chose to retire from playing competitively, I've been experiencing a lot of emotions since this past weekend. I've been playing since 2006, but most recently spent the last 5 years playing with Tanasi, and our season just ended. Afterwards, I shared these words with the team, and thought them appropriate to share as an extension of yours:
I sit here thinking…why am I here?
Am I sitting with regret or satisfaction?
Where is the line?
Does it matter?
The joy, the fun, the gratitude. It builds. It forms. It spires.
I think less of the plays, and more of the in between.
The space outside of the plastic.
Where human connection thrives,
outside of judgment, form, or consequence.
A matrimony of freedom and discipline,
where we collectively decide that this,
THIS
matters.
And that this is enough to make every part not only worth it,
but glorious.
I’m reminiscing.
On the plays that made this worth it.
On the teams that made this worth it.
On the people that made this worth it.
You made it worth it.
I ultimately sit with joy and gratitude.
Peace of mind that not only does talent thrive in the FYT,
but those who serve the culture.
We hear the echoes of dogs,
and those echoes lull me to rest,
knowing that while it’s smart to let sleeping dogs lie,
“The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment.”
Live for the moment.
Each moment. That moment. This moment.
A quote I’ve loved for a long time (from the movie “Rushmore”):
"I guess you've just gotta find something you love to do and then…
do it for the rest of your life."
This community, I’ve chosen,
and it’s served me well.
Thank you all.
I love you all.