7-4-10

HERO SHOT

THE LITTLE LEWBOWSKI URBAN ACHIEVERS

HUMAN TOTEM POLE

DOUBLE FISTIN

AMERICAN GLADIATORS

MER-MAN

Someone once said the only piece of objective journalism in any newspaper is the box score. Our Syracuse Alumn team, the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers, finished the 2010 Potlach Ultimate Frisbee tournament at 3-5. This put us around 65th place of 100 teams, a poorer showing than two summers ago when we finished 4-4, and in 50th place. But covering an ultimate frisbee tournament in any sort of traditional way in hogwash. And so, here is the angle Hunter S. Thompson might cover the tournament:

Common decency indicates lugging kegs of beer hundreds of yards over ball fields mowed and manicured for children's athletics is reprehensible and inexcusable, but there's nothing more deplorable than following the rules on 4th of July, the commemoration of our great nation's breaking free from the law of England, our once supreme ruler. In our tradition so steeped in vicious rioting and revolting, ultimate frisbee teams looted golf carts, vandalized tents, took advantage of security guards by stealing sophisticated walkie-talkie systems, swallowed strong drink before breakfast, and used drugs in broad daylight in front of perfectly respectable senior citizens and young infants. Feeling hindered and encumbered by the suffocating affect of tight fitting athletic clothing, teams removed their wardrobes and ran naked, with breasts and genitals flopping in the breeze, eliciting wild cheers and applause, instead of the usual disgusted, appalled, and ghastly stares that one might expect anywhere else. Who actually won the tournament? Who knows? And who really cares? The competition on the field was for all intents and purposes meaningless. For the real winners were the men wearing leotards, the women wearing fishnet stocking and metal spikes, the wig wearers and the caped crusaders. The true heros were the inebriated ones, who stayed awake longer than anyone else, and were ready to play the first point in the early AM hours, keeled over, ready to vomit, but saved by the cool mist of sprinkling rain and the warm bubbles of canned beers flowing down their throats.

Anyone who would pay hard earned cash to subject themselves to the tortures of an ultimate frisbee tournament, where one subsists solely on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on bagels and alcoholic liquid meals should have their head examined. Is there a doctor in the house?