Well, technically, it's d-day minus 3. I'd played Solstice with a young Oregon college team from UofO, and had a good time, and I was feeling friskee. Sunday night, mon, tuesday, at somepoint I was shooting the shit with John Hammond and he invited me to play on Dave Bestock's Potlatch team. Under normal circumstances, that might not qualify as an invite from the Kid, but it's pretty much how I landed on Sockeye in the first place, and Dave's a pal, so I figured it was worth a shot. As an aside, it's pretty much how I landed on my Solstice team, so I was game.
Thursday night I played City league, and dominated (whatever that means in city league), and was feeling friskee. I roped ryan, league coordinator, into going. He was iffy about playing, and I guaranteed him no guarantee of our team, but told him he'd have a spot on SOME team. Plus, selfishly, It's a long drive. And gas was costing $4.00 per.
Friday night, we prepared to leave. My car was sitting outside the house, minus the fuel pump, stolen 2 weeks earlier (great story, I'd solved the crime, but not troubled myself to replace the pump, more on that to follow). So I was riding over with housemates Scott and Chris to portland, where Ryan and I would take Scott's car up to the fields. Scott Had been go to play until thursday night until a family emergency took him out. I'd actually promised to squeeze him onto the team with what was known as the Ketner clause (when, 3 years earlier, the last player to be named later I'd brought watched all weekend, played 2 points, and one of them was in the quarters where he played one point and delivered the game winning block. So my scouting rep was better than my own playing rep). Anyway, Scott's out, so he was being pretty cool with the car loan.
Ryan, guest of guests is late, so we don't roll out until about 7. Drop Scott and Chris off at the family hacienda in Portland around 10 or so, fumble around Gresham for a while, and then roll north. I think we arrive in Remond, or Kirkland, or wherever the hell potlatch is held (I don't know, garmin and google take care of those details, I just knew I could guide it in from the exit). I think we get there around 2.
As we approach the fields, the mist shrouds 40 acre soccer complex. A fox crosses the road in front of us. The scene is pastoral, and I'm relaxed to know that I'm going to get a good, peaceful nights sleep prior to 3 days of ultimate.
And then I turned off the ignition, and opened the door, and was greated with a cacaughanous roar from the fields.
No, The fox was fleeing drunks, the noise was terrible, and I simply hung my head. I'd been there on the other side of this debacle before, and now it was my turn to reap the whirlwind. It was loud, and it was time to suffer.
I set up my tent in the quietest (my thoughts) corner of the fields, in an area that would receive latest sunrise due to the location of the hill. I was a saavy vet, even if I'd not achieved countal levels of eye patches and neck pillows.
And then I notice ryan standing around with a sleeping bag and a pillow. "Uh, where's your tent ryan?," I asked. "Kind of don't have one," said Ryan.
Great. And now I'm stuck with a room mate. How could this tournament get worse in the next 6 hours. Games at nine, not technically on a team, some dopey giant taking up air in my tent, and the loud noise of 1200 twenty somethings freed from normal societal rules. I was being confronted with every painful transgression (Well, at least 15% of them) I'd ever made at a frisbee tournament, but now on the other end of the stick. It was Lord of the Flies. I was treading on Piggy territory. How could it get worse.
Turned out, Ryan snored.
To be continued.
(Non frisbee corner. Ran 80 min yesterday, and lifted. Rode 90 minutes recovery today, and did IllioTibial Band rehab)
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