Entries this day: centex_pics centex_rod

centex pics

These are stillshots taken from Tim's video of our ultimate tournament in Austin.

(update 2003 July: I can't find the pics)

	An unecessary close-up of our Mascott, Jo Boo!
	Tim wrote: a picture of Cog strutting for the camera during warm-up. Notice how he warms up vs. how Sean warms up [in the background skying for a catch] and look at the results [also notice how i warm up behind the camera! hehehe :) ] Tim.
	Here is Tim in a valiant effort to block the disc.
	Cog's warmup apparently worked. Here he is catching our last point of the tournament!

centex rod

Sunday 22 March 1998

Written by Rod Meek

And so our team has returned from the Centex Ultimate Tournament in Austin, flushed with...uh...defeat. The Saturday Night Specials have now been renamed the Saturday Night Special Olympics, and our entry fee was picked up by our "opponents" (though that word implies a reasonably even contest) who were glad to earn cheap victories at our expense. We lost three on Saturday and then another in single-elimination in the consolation (read: "losers") bracket on Sunday. The scores: 17-3, 17-2, 17-9, and 13-9. The number of points required for a victory seemed kinda variable--last year, teams only had to rack up 11 to beat us.

The first game day did not start auspiciously for me, as I had no sooner arrived at the field than I locked my keys in my truck. I had to send Cog back to his sister-in-law's house to get that all-purpose tool, a coat hangar, which worked marvelously well and quickly popped the lock. (Mental note: don't leave valuable stuff in truck at Saturday night game.) However, all else looked good, except Paul declined to show, having a foreboding of what was to come. But at least the weather was nice, unlike the arctic conditions at the previous tournament.

Our first match was against Old Yeller, a pack of 40-year-olds, the same blokes that whipped us in our Tuesday At Four incarnation last year. I'm pleased to report we tripled our point output over last year's match against them. We really had no hope against these guys, and we still hadn't quite figured out what to do or why we were on the field. At least they put us out of misery with swift efficiency. Afterwards, we suffered our first casualty, John, who stole my thunder and stormed off the field in a rage, never to be seen again. Luckily, some German guy named Brauer had joined us, so we still were able to have four people loitering on the sidelines for substitutions.

The next game was against some other team that had looked to us to be really good. Unfortunately, looks were not deceiving, and they thrashed us mercilessly. Mark commemorated this debacle by puking all over the end of the field.

The third massacre was against a pack of deranged mutants that spent a great deal of their time milling about the sidelines, muttering "Nub nub, nub nub." This diabolical tactic worked all too well on me and filled me with soul- numbing fear. It also had some effect on Brick, who showed up to taunt us, and soon found himself also puking all over the end of the field. But we had other skills than projectile vomiting, and the game was at least reasonably close this time. Since we had lost so rapidly in our first two matches, we were well-rested, whereas the Nub-nubs had fought hard and had only enough energy to maul us badly with little finesse.

I completed my awful day by going back to the Ramada Inn (filled with surly and incompetent employees whose loathing of us was scarcely concealed) and accidentally smashing my head into the underside of a staircase. Unhappily, my plan to get a concussion to excuse myself from the Sunday game came to naught, and it was with great reluctance that I found myself at the field the following morning. This time we faced the Hammerheads from Corpus Christi, and at last we met a foe worthy of us, which means a team that was filled with as many old, fat, and slow people as ours, and nearly as many complainers and whiners and the dreaded Makers of Bad Calls. At one point we nearly had to convene a civil court out there just to sort through the calls and countercalls, though Cog was correctly busted for his infamous "Cog shuffle" when he was a thrower. The worst moments were when Will blazed across the endzone we were defending and slapped away what would have been a score, only to get tripped up with the intended receiver, who seized advantage of the situation to call a foul, even though the disk was blocked before the contact and batted so far away that it was unplayable even without contact. Then the Hammerheads reacted with outrage when Tim skied up for a catch, got speared in the back, and called his own foul. It pretty much devolved after that point, with strips, fouls, out of bounds, and picks being called in a flurry. I think I even heard "dog on field" being cried out. In any event, we had a real chance in this game, and afterwards everyone felt pretty damn good.

Items of note:

1) The team MVP was the canopy Tim bought for the Sunday game, so we would no longer broil in the sun. We were the envy of all and could've charged admission to our shaded splendor. I think we've got the equipment angle pretty well taken care of; we knew enough this time to bring chairs and sunblock (though most of us were too dim-witted to realize that the sun would shine on our arms and legs and not just our faces, so consequently horrific burns were a common affliction).

2) Our team name got printed on a Centex shirt available for a low, low price. We can now be associated in print with such giants as Club Mud and the Hound Dogs.

3) Wonder Boy was totally macking out there and was rewarded with several new phone numbers from female admirers.

4) Brick came in for a single series and discovered it is difficult to play if one has spent the day gorging on candy bars and cookie dough and then hits the field wearing long pants.

5) Cog's young children were exposed to the traumatic experience of seeing Daddy slapped silly by our opponents. I sense many years of expensive psychotherapy in their futures.

As for my own performance, it can be catalogued as shown below:

1) No one can deny that I was periodically on the field.

2) There is no number 2.

I certainly excelled in general pessimism ("We're all doomed", "We suck", etc.), whininess ("How come we don't get to play other losers just like us?"), petty backbiting ("Bill's the single greatest menace we've ever known--to our own team") and explosions of rage ("Bite me, Tim!"). I can only recommend that should I choose to play at Centex again, I be kept heavily medicated at all times.

Be that as it may, I would like to blame--er, thank--Tim for the effort he put into organizing this, which was no small feat. Now, if he can arrange regular scrimmages for us against Club Mud, maybe we'll have a shot next year...

"Wa-hoo!" (the sound from the other team every time I touched the disk) --Rod