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It's the night before the most important Ultimate tourney of the year.

breathe in, breathe out...


10 AM Captains' meeting, 11 AM game against Yale.

breathe in, breathe out

I should be asleep, I should be resting up... it's gonna be a long day. But I can't sleep - can't even sit still.

I am fucking shaking.

upwind point, we pull. back corner of the endzone. i am the monster. mark straight up, no huck. you're going to have to throw better fakes than that if you want me to bite. stall 6...7...8... it's off, a swing to the sideline, and i'm after it. nothing up the line, buddy boy, and nothing long. my wall shuts down each short cut in turn, and there's no way they can go long on me. stall count's rising again, he turns to dump, lets it go into the wind. a little floaty, he was scared. i'm on it, i'm flying. disc goes up... up... up... and down in my hand. chilly now. dump it, get it off the line. make the baby talk cut, see the stack, straight out the back of the endzone. call a play - two people cut to the front corners. shit, that's a tight man, they're covered good. they clear, time to start thinking about the dump. but wait, there's mots in the front of the stack, his man's a good 5 feet from him. eye contact... he nods. i can hear him screaming to himself yes yes yes throw it throw it now. there is no cut, just a hard throw. all the forehand i've got. his man hears the up call, comprehends, half a second too late, lays out, but comes up with only a mouthful of dirt. mots has the disc, in the endzone. the game is ours. we're going to nationals.

I demand of each muscle that it quiet down, relax. Most of them obey. Breathe, slowly now... in...out.