Along The Way
My parents came to my first ultimate tournament when I was a sophomore in college. It was a one day tournament at Bard College. I’d spent Saturday at home with my roommate and family. We all drove up to the tournament. My brother, Chris, burned me a CD of Childish Gambino songs that I liked. On the ride up, my roommate, Courtney, allowed me to listen to it, even though she hated it. New England in the fall is beautiful, and the drive on the Taconic Parkway was breathtaking. It was a mild fall day — perfect for ultimate.
It was my first tournament back from knee surgery, so of course my minutes were restricted. To be honest, even if I was healthy, I wouldn’t have played much more. In those days, I wasn’t very good at ultimate. I only played a handful of points. My parents were impressed with the sport in general, but certainly restless. They left early and dropped Courtney off at Marist so that she could get some work done.
We won the tournament, but I didn’t have much to do with it. When I got back to my dorm room, there was a note on my desk from Courtney. It said how happy she was to get to see me play and how proud she was of me for how well I did.
When you’re six years in, people see a certain type of player. Not the best player. But someone who is calm, someone who knows how it goes. Someone who has learned enough to make plays happen. To be in the right place at the right time. To get off the break throw at will. To place the huck perfectly for the oncoming receiver. People see THIS. You try out for a team, and they see THIS. They see in an instant the culmination of years of work. It’s not their fault. I see the same thing when I play with people who have been playing for a long time. You know how hard you’ve worked, so on some level you must know that they’ve also gone through a lot of pain in order to make it look as easy as they do. But it’s not really what you’re thinking about when you look at them.
In the beginning, you’re a completely different player. Even the naturals are still rookies. Even those with potential have to pay their dues. To be good at anything, the sacrifices you have to make are astounding. The time, the money, the other opportunities you have to miss out on, the physical pain and conditioning and recovery. It has to be this way, or it wouldn’t mean anything. But in this way, everyone who is great at something has a chip on their shoulder. Everyone who is great at something is an underdog. They came from nothing and they had to make themselves. The talent is besides the point. No one ever became great on talent alone.
And so, sometimes you have to feel alone. Even among your teammates and your mentors and the people who are going through the same thing. It’s a lonely process, even when you have an amazing support system. But this is how your bond with your teammates come to mean so much — because you’re all going through the same thing, even when you have to go through it alone.
You are grateful for your teammates because they have some idea of what you’re going through. They go through a version of it themselves. But it’s the people who aren’t going through it and who support you anyway that you can’t help but be blown away by. Courtney was there when I was shit at ultimate. She’s the one who forced me to go to physical therapy on the days when I didn’t have the strength to force myself, she wore five shorts and learned zone defense and went out and threw on the quad with me, even though she hated it. Her parents took me out to carb load the night before tournaments, sat in the cold and watched me play, and took me out for more free food afterwards. Her mom bought me grip strengtheners for Christmas.
Courtney never loved ultimate. She only loved me. I am proud to be the player I am today for many reasons. Some of it is for me. But some of it is knowing that I get to make her proud, and I make her sacrifices worth it.
