1. Universe Point

 May 8, BC Provincial Ultimate Frisbee Championship Final

Universe point may be a term unique to ultimate frisbee. It refers to the final point of a game, when both teams are tied. It is a winner take all point, the team that scores wins the game right there and then. The final of the British Columbia boy’s provincial championship was at universe point. The score was tied at 12 in a game to 13 points. The entire game came down to the battle between the 14 players on the field.

The disc sliced through the air with crisp precision. A backhand, then a flick, a quick pivot to a swing, a dump, another swing, a smooth under. Vancouver Preparatory School, wearing black jerseys, calmly marched upfield, taking open looks and finding easy targets. Always one step behind, Surrey Central Secondary School’s defense was slowly becoming more and more frantic. Despite the growing pressure on the defense, Surrey Central managed to corral the VanPrep offense towards one sideline of the field. 

One pass floated a half second too long. A defender dove for the hovering plastic. One finger made contact, forcing the frisbee to wobble ever so slightly. Jason wore a VanPrep jersey with a bright red number 89 emblazoned on the black synthetic fabric. He waited downfield and watched his teammate in the #23 jersey catch the tipped disc, watching it all the way into their hands. 25 yards outside the endzone, #23 pivoted to turn upfield. A continuation cutter was there, a scarlet #44 emblazoned on a black uniform, a defender a stride behind, close but not close enough to make a clean play. Before the defender marking him had time to recover, #23 had a throw off. The continuation cutter attacked the disc, cleats furiously pounding away at the ground beneath them. #44 caught the disc with arms outstretched, establishing as much separation between them and the defender as they could. #44’s mark counted stalls, rhythmically breathing out the numbers. Jason continued waiting, his eyes surveyed the field as he pushed down the field, his defender right there with him. 

The rest of his teammates set up and found their spaces on the field. The team was split into two horizontal rows, #44 was in a row with 2 other players, with the remaining four further downfield. #44 looked to one of the players on the same level as them who wore the #19 jersey and called out their name. #19 made a short cut into the backfield, #44 faked a pass, and #19 responded with a new cut. As #44  threw,  #19, VanPrep’s star handler drove upfield from the first row, and gathered a gentle forehand from #44. The sidelines rang with cheers and shouts of guidance from player to player. Dozens of voices formed a symphony that rang gently in #19’s ears. Four stalls eroded away with no open options. 

Seeing this, Jason called out and made a cut from the second row of players. He was unable to shake his defender, and cleared the space that he had entered. #19 shimmied and faked a throw to Jason before pivoting and lunging out, stretching as far as they could reach, and firing off a throw to #7 in the middle reset. In the midst of the clamoring voices around the field, #7’s booming voice called out for an endzone setup. Jason found his way to the middle of a stack of cutters in the end zone. VanPrep was threatening to end the final game of the season for all high school teams. A deceptive 12 yards separated VanPrep from a Provincial Championship. Two cutters, the ones wearing the #44 and #23 jerseys exploded from the stack, making a series of narrow cuts. The two of them couldn't shake their defenders and #7 looked to #19 for the reset. With a jab of one foot, planting with the other, #19 shot into the backfield, their defender lagging behind. #7 lofted a short backhand into space and #19 chased after it, only losing a couple of yards. 

This was the moment Jason had been waiting for the entire time VanPrep had possession of the disc. Cleanly in the flow of the game, he split from the front of the endzone stack, driving into acres of open grass. As #19’s mark tried to recover and cut off the backhand throw, #19 pivoted and stretched an impossibly long distance beyond the defender’s reaching foot and sent a clean backhand break to the space in front of the cutter. The #89 shone ruby red on Jason’s jersey. The disc rested on a cushion of air and Jason strode out to meet the path of the flying plastic. The crowd crescendoed with raw excitement. The disc grazed his palm, then hit his chest, then dropped to the outside of his leg, and finally plummeted to the ground with a dead thud. 

The color evaporated from Jason’s face for half a second before he set his face again to shield any emotion away. #19, who had thrown the pass winced before finding his mark again and squaring up to play defense. The crowd was silent before the calls of coaches and players again echoed through the field. The eyes of Surrey Central’s players ignited with fiery joy. SCSS’s white jerseys seemed magically cleaner as the body language of the players shifted from hunger to pride and confidence. Blue numbers on a white jersey marked the #27 of the handler walking the disc to the front of the endzone. A smile emerged on #27’s face as he offered a knowing gesture to his teammate donning the #83 jersey. VanPrep’s coach called out the defensive setup, which echoed down the field from player to player. VanPrep’s #19 tapped the disc in and started counting stalls. #19 shifted and shuffled with all of #27’s movements and locked his gaze on #27’s eyes. #83 exploded deep by the time #19 had reached stall 3. Half a step was the total separation between #83 of SCSS and Jason of VanPrep. Half a step was enough for #27 of SCSS to have 100% confidence that #83 would get the disc so long as the throw was catchable. #27 stepped into a vicious forehand huck, whipping his arm forwards, snapping his wrist and launching the disc down the field. The pass curved outside, away from the field, gaining altitude and then slowly descended and returned to the playing field.  Jason and #83 battled for position near the goal line. Jason went up early,  leaping for the disc, grazing the rim with the tips of the fingers on his right hand. #83 was leaping a fraction of a second later, snagging the rim with his elevated left hand. A roar erupted as #83 landed half a yard into the end zone, Jason collapsed at his feet.

#83’s voice boomed in a deafening roar of elation “LETS GOOOOOOOO!,” fading slightly as he dashed to the back of the endzone and slammed the disc down into the earth. Before Jason even had a chance to regain his footing, a swarm of SCSS players, coaches, and supporters stormed the endzone. Dozens of people trampled past him, curled up into a ball on his hands and knees, his back arched, shielding him from any stray feet that might befall him. Jason raised his fist and slammed it into the ground. 

Moments later there was a hand on his shoulder, helping him stand up. Jason looked up to see his teammate with the #19 jersey.

“Stav, I’m so-” Before Jason had a chance to speak, he was cut off.

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” Stav looked up into Jason’s eyes, which were slowly swelling with tears. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” #44 came jogging over and embraced the two, towering over both of them. 

“You two played a great game” the tall #44 said.

“Thanks Winston” Jason mumbled.

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“Jason, you played a great game there’s no reason to be moping like that.” Jason sat motionless in the backseat of a 2008 Honda Accord. The red of Jason’s #89 jersey was dull in the lighting of the car, a dark blue duffle bag sat beside him. The color was no longer one of rubies but of dried blood, brown and rusty, defeated and worn. His hair which had been elegantly spiked at the start of the day was now disheveled and messy. Jason shifted in his seat, setting his posture away from slouching and towards neutral. As the car rumbled along through the city, Jason offered no commentary nor conversation. 

Jason’s glazed eyes hid the tumultuous thoughts rolling around in his head. Following the game, his coach had spoken with the whole team about how a game never truly comes down to one play. The coach’s words about the butterfly effect pinged the inside of Jason’s skull, but were mostly drowned out by his mental replaying of the dropped disc and the whiffed attempt at a defensive play. 

“No one play determines a game.” As the word echoed, Jason saw himself drop the disc again. “If we could play god and change any of the plays in the game, no matter what, we’d have a different game.” He whiffs on defense. “Every play of every game makes the game what it is.” Drop. “We gotta live with the world that we’re in.” Whiff. “Don’t worry about the ‘what ifs’ or the ‘could’ve beens’ or the ‘should’ve dones’.” Drop. “None of that matters.” Whiff. 

In a storm of repetitive thoughts, a swelling sense of disappointment and defeat filled Jason, pushing outwards on him. The growing pressure of the emotions made it feel as though his bones might crack within him, leaving his body broken and stuck in the backseat of the car. Though the car was swarmed among dozens of others in the busy Vancouver streets, Jason felt isolated, stranded. There was no safety in sight and something in Jason’s mind told him not to break down here, it was better to do it out of sight, where others wouldn’t see. 

Jason’s family’s car moseyed through the roads and boulevards of Vancouver, eventually pulling down a stretch of quieter streets and crawling to a stop outside of a two story house. The house itself had light yellow siding, the lawn was flush with local flora, central was a large pine that cast a gentle shade upon much of the lawn. Once the car had stopped, Jason opened the car door and reached for his bag. A moment passed where he was entirely unsure if he would even be able to generate the will to move his legs. Then, in slow, unsteady, movements Jason moved his legs, exited the car, and hobbled towards the front door of his house. 

Never reaching a speed much higher than a crawl, Jason emptied his bag, leaving his cleats on the front steps, drank the last dregs of water in two bottles before placing them in the dishwasher, threw the jersey he wasn’t wearing into the empty washing machine, and then carried the bag upstairs. Jason climbed the stairs, his movements entirely absent of the nimbleness he had shown on the field all but an hour ago. Jason tossed his bag into his room, as the bag landed, the sound of the disc hitting the ground in the endzone rang in his ears. Jason winced, moving towards his closet, haphazardly grabbing at clean clothes. Once he had a full set of clothes, he began his sluggish walk again, exiting his room and making his way to the bathroom.

Jason stripped himself of his clothes, letting each drop to the floor. In a haze, he turned on the water. He didn’t bother letting it warm up, his mind was so far distant to the present that he could no longer tell the temperature. A fog surrounded Jason as he showered, as he lathered his hands with soap, the bar dropped from his hand. The ringing thud brought visions of the dropped disc. Absentmindedly, Jason pressed his hands to his eyes in an attempt to rid his mind of the sight of the disc clattering to earth. The soap hit his eyes, setting them with a burning, stinging sensation. Jason yelped and moved the stream of water onto his face. As he blasted his face with water, he finally broke down. Ragged sobs and slight whimpers winded their way out of his lungs. All that kept Jason from collapsing in the shower was his grip on the accessibility bar built into the wall of the shower. A knock rang out on the door of the bathroom. 

“You okay in there Jason?” the voice of Jason’s father was muffled. 

“I - I...I’m okay… I just got uh, soap... in my - eyes” Jason choked out the words, stuttering and stumbling over his tongue in the pain. 

“Alright, be more careful.” His dad responded briefly before his footsteps faded down the hall. With his eyes burning less, Jason finished showering, bending over to shut off the water. The stream of water coming from the shower-head was cut off. Jason’s eyes still leaked tears as his body shook and shivered, crouched in the front of the shower.

 

↼⇀ ↼⇀ ↼⇀

Dry and warm, Jason’s eyes still burned bloodshot, a red not far from the numbering on the crumpled jersey that now occupied a dark corner of Jason’s room. Jason himself was perched on the corner of his bed, facing a window that overlooked the front lawn of the house. He sat and scrolled through dozens of messages in the team group chat. Plans were being laid for the end-of-year celebration. Jason saw each message, his eyes passing over each word, but none of the information stayed in his mind. When he was done filtering through the messages, he repeated the same process on various social media. Scrolling through the content he had missed and going through the paces of offering minimal-effort replies to messages he had received. When it appeared the social media well had run dry, Jason let himself fall back onto the bed. 

The second he was horizontal, he immediately needed to get up and get his headphones. A deep exhale and Jason slowly raised himself to standing, worked his way across the room and pulled his messy, tangled earbuds out of an outer pocket of the duffle bag. With headphones in hand, Jason began his return to the mattress. Even in the state of subdued depression, Jason methodically undid all the knots and loops that had formed in his earbuds. With the earbuds functional again, Jason flicked through several playlists til he found the one he was looking for. A mix of Frank Ocean, Adele, and Simon and Garfunkel began spilling out of the earbuds, filling the emptiness. The songs cycled through one by one as Jason stared blankly into the screen. Notifications began spilling in slowly as he sat, unmoving on the bed. It was the annual parade of being tagged in end of season posts by his teammates. The wide variety of captions almost brought the semblance of a smile to Jason’s face. Team pictures from tournaments and practices throughout the year brought first joy and then gloom. 

All that work, all that time, all that effort that we put into this season and I ruined it all. The thought barged into Jason’s mind like a freight train. Jason did his best to shake off the thought and returned to scrolling through his phone.  Among the boy’s team photos were several from the women’s team as well. Uplifting and sarcastic comments, inside jokes and an atmosphere of joy permeated the posts of the women’s team. Beneath it all, both teams had a hunger for more. The women’s team had surged into 5th place in the provincial tournament, they were returning almost all of their players, and most teams above them were losing key contributors. The men’s team had come inches away from winning it all, but instead reaching a third straight title game and receiving a third straight 2nd place trophy. As Jason mentally remarked on the hunger of his teammates and friends, his stomach growled. Depleted in will and spirit, Jason had completely overlooked his physical needs. He checked the time, as he did, a savory smell wafted up to his room and Jason began the slow descent to the kitchen. It was time to eat, then he could rest again. 

Fin Chapter 1