Standing by the only road out of Akaroa, with our thumbs jutting North, Chris and I flashed our biggest smiles as the 6 AM traffic of pick-up trucks and rentals passed by. Even after the tenth vehicle failed to yield, my disposition remained sunny. Hot coffee and the prospect of my first weekend of ultimate since November buoyed my spirits. I’d spent three weeks in anticipation and now only the eighty kilometers to Christchurch stood in my way. I had biked, flown and driven [and driven and driven and driven] to tournaments before, but never hitchhiked to one. In fact I’d never thumbed it anywhere before.
Beginner’s luck struck in the form of Mort, and his new Toyota extended-cab truck. Mort was just starting his holiday: recovering from his friend’s wedding, he was on his way to catch a flight to Vancouver for a ski trip. We rode with him all the way to the airport, leaving us a twenty minute walk to the fields. We just missed the first round, but our team had dispatched their opponent without us.
As I warmed up for the next round, I sized up our nine-man squad. We had some height and some athletic looking receivers, but I wondered if we’d manage to gel enough to win a tournament with only nine pairs of legs, especially when I had serious doubts about my own fitness. I learned that the Christchurch players had split into two squads, Yin and Yang. We were Yang, and we’d be facing Yin in the next match.
Bummer. We came out flat in the second half, and Yin cruised to an easy 13-8 win. Our next two games were not challenging, and we ended our day with three wins, one loss. I scarfed down a sandwich, and after Chris introduced “ultimate ninja” to a small crowd, we headed home with our hostess, the incomparable Emma. Showers, dinner and a few drinks at the party – all standard fare, but indicative of the consistent hospitality offered in the ultimate community: we take care of our own.
I spent the night curled on some couch cushions and a banana-shaped bean bag, waking to the collective screams of my joints and muscles. Every player has been here; that dreaded early morning moment when the sheer absurdity of what we do for “fun” becomes all too clear. Emma bounded down the steps, singing a song about toast and coffee. I burrowed further against my banana, wishing I could peel it open and hide there for a while. After a few more minutes, I woke up and began the slow and painful process of getting ready for Sunday’s games.
I didn’t want to play when I got to the fields, and I still didn’t want to play when I warmed up my throws with Chris. But as surely as the sun rises, I began to feel that familiar itch as I glanced across the pitch at our competition. By the first pull I was Ready to Go, sprinting after the pull. We played our best game of the tournament against them, and despite their higher seed, we beat them decisively, 13-6. The next game was against a college team of beginners, who we took care of quickly, giving us a long break before our semifinal against Wellington.
Any tournament with nine players is rough, even if the competition is not very high. My body tried to shut down after every game, and I would have to coax it back to life in time for the next one. As we tired out, our play became sloppy – barely beating Wellington by breaking on universe point. We would face Yin in the finals, who had demolished us the previous day. We came out strong, taking a 5-2 lead, but once again as our legs failed us, our decision making went out the window, and we faced a four point deficit shortly after halftime. A couple injuries had us playing savage, and all looked lost, but somehow we found ourselves pulling to Yin on universe point. They gave us the disc on a careless upwind huck, and as our own offense stalled, we threw up a prayer and came down with it. I had become a South Island Champion.
But my day was not done – I still had to get back to Akaroa. Chris and I said some hasty goodbyes and caught a ride to the edge of Christchurch, where we found ourselves once again with our thumbs in the wind. Our first two rides came pretty quickly and got us all the way to Barry’s Bay, within 12 kilometers of Akaroa. Here our luck ran out, and Chris and I sang all the way through 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall without any cars stopping for us. Despite my legs’ protestations, we began walking the remaining distance. After a mile and half a friendly Aussie took us down the hill [my knees thanked the Gods!] and soon a beautiful Danish couple picked us up in their camper van and took us the rest of the way to Akaroa. Dinner and sleep followed soon after.
Fantastic. Congrats, bro. Hope your muscles have recovered!