The Ultimate Hero

In my humble experience, I have come to realize that all competitive ultimate players think of themselves as superheros. For the most part, they are gregarious, charismatic, marginally productive members of society and most important to their attitude, they take significant pride in their ultimate skills. I just spent all of last weekend out in Seattle at Potlatch, a famous 98 team tournament that culminated in Team USA defeating Team Canada to take the title. Over the weekends course I witnessed displays of athleticism that would blow the pants off of a high-level talent scout of any sport/competitive hobby.

One of the major aspects of an ultimate players athleticism so esoteric to this particular demonstration of skill, is the ability to make it through a full tournament without irreparably damaging every organ of the body while each and every muscle complains through the lactic acidosis/alco acidosis . It's one thing to play three straight days of any competitive sport and an entirely different thing to replace a hearty, glycogen-replenishing meal and a good night's sleep in between each day with brewery parties, impromptu raves, portable castle beerbongs, 3am bacon feasts (courtesy of the team "Night Bacon!"), a laundry list of debaucherous makeout
related shenanigans, and a crowded tent one may or may not return to as the sun begins to rise.

Said summer mid-tourney nights are beyond memorable, both literally and metaphorically as their Dionysian splendor, which rivaled any saturnalia penned in myths of the Greeks (sans the little boys shagging), drowned a good deal of the memories I accrued. Once the week is over, and the various teams have traveled their separate ways returning with somber melancholy to their cubicles, I certainly can't help feeling like a superbeing who, having just rescued a 747 from certain doom at the toe-talons of flying velociraptors in a most awesome display of power, dons his Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne persona.