From: Fatima Yousif 
Date: Fri, 10 Aug 2001 00:15:25 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: ultimate in the press

Hello Everyone, 
a great article which I feel sums up the joy of
ultimate.
Cheers
F.

WEEKEND JOURNAL
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Culture & Thought -- Personal Journey:
What Is `an Evil Cult' Anyway?
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Does Faith in Flying Saucers Count?
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By Simon Montlake  The Asian Wall Street Journal via
Dow Jones
BALI, Indonesia -- Last weekend I joined a cult. It
wasn't too difficult. I didn't need to pledge my
everlasting soul to the Almighty Master of Ceremonies
or sacrifice that chicken I've been saving for a late
summer barbeque. It isn't that kind of cult, you see.
Nobody suggested a spot of self-immolation or holing
up in a shack on the edge of town until our instant
ramen runs out. We don't even have any sacred texts,
unless you count printouts of Internet diatribes. I
guess it isn't your average cult. But who wants to
join a run-of-the-mill mindbender?
We certainly have our fair share of esoteric concepts
that newcomers may find baffling. It starts with the
disc, our savior, tormentor and friend. To an Ultimate
Frisbee cultist, the disc is always the disc, never
the frisbee, despite the glorious name of our
wonderful cult (see, they got to me, didn't they?).
You probably think you know all about the frisbee,
that round plastic toy that you once gleefully tossed
to your friends on the beach or in the park, back in
the days Before Golf. An innocent game, free of the
stress and tension of the capitalist rat-race. Hell,
countless youth even play stoned -- though no one
wants to condone that.
But that was then, and this is Ultimate Frisbee. What
began in New Jersey in the freewheeling 1960s as an
alternative to regimented American team sports
(football, baseball, "Larry King Live") has evolved
into a global head-spinner crossing the free and
not-so free world (sorry, Singapore). As with any
truly successful cult -- think Falun Gong and deep
breathing -- the basic rules are simple: Two teams of
seven take turns to pass the disc down a 70-yard field
into an end zone and score a point. If you drop the
disc or the other team intercepts, play switches
direction. Pushing and punching are forbidden; yelling
"hammer," "force field" or, most alarmingly from a
public-health standpoint, "dump" is fine.
In Bali, the site of my induction, cult members from
Taipei, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Beijing, Jakarta and, yes,
Singapore lost no time in staking out their claim to
the pan-Asian silver disc. I watched in awe as clumps
of tanned expatriate Americans scowled and stretched
in the hazy morning sun, flanked by energetic Asians
and the occasional stray goat. Discs flew from all
directions, bobbing and weaving like flying saucers in
a UFO home-movie. My cult leaders from Jakarta's
Discindo team, dubbed the sexiest in Southeast Asia,
tell me that Ultimate is sinking local roots across
the region. It's not just over-achiever Americans who
can't put down the disc these days.
Some of you may decry the march of global
"cultilization" in Asia, another evil expat trick
pulled out of a baseball cap, but if it means less
farmland being converted to golf courses, then play
on, you crazy cultists. And let's not mince words, we
are crazy, though I'm not sure every contest can match
the giddy highs of this year's Bali Ultimate Frisbee
tournament. Our hosts provide not only a local gamelan
orchestra to accompany the final game (Singapore beats
Taipei -- ouch!) but also a gaggle of onsite masseurs
who tend to each aching muscle after every hard-fought
game.
And then there are the cheerleaders: a merry band of
Jakarta's finest street transvestites who prance
across the field in pink chiffon tutus, knee-high
socks and silver tops. Their coach, who in her spare
time works for a Wall Street bank, leads exuberant
chants studded with Ultimate words designed to confuse
any non-cultists. But after a morning of throwing
hammers and hucks, of dramatic end-zone dives, it all
starts to make sense. Not all the assembled cultists
are in on the joke. One jock squints across the field
at the arriving cheerleaders and tells his teammates:
"Those girls are kinda hot, huh?"
While pom-pom toting cheerleaders and exclusive
terminology are familiar to many American sports, our
noble cult is set apart by its referees -- we don't
have any. Ultimate relies on an honors system whereby
players "fess up" to their fouls in order to keep the
laidback spirit of the game alive, rather than go for
a win at all costs. It doesn't always work. As the
tournament progresses, more fouls are contested, more
expletives muttered under the breath. But when the
game ends, everyone shakes hands and smiles goofily at
the blissful joy that is Ultimate.
Later that evening, as the cultists gather at the
hotel pool to sup Bali's finest sports cocktails,
awards are handed out for the best team spirit, best
point scored, most cheerleaders groped, etc. That's
one of the secrets of the cult: lots of awards. (It
works for the TV industry, too.) I would tell you the
other secrets, but then I'd have to kill you, and we
don't want our cult getting a bad name. After all, I'm
sure even the Moonies started off with the best of
intentions. But now look at them.
In Bali, the best is saved until last. After hours of
merriment, we stumble into a decibel-driven disco to
watch Nanang, Discindo's in-house designer, stage a
fashion show featuring cultists in Technicolor outfits
that would make a cheerleader blush. Tourists gape in
bewilderment at the beefy Americans stalking the
catwalk in gold-lame G-strings and maroon smoking
jackets. "Are they, like, professionals?" asked one
bemused girl. As the show ends, the DJ cranks up the
music and we start twitching to jackhammer techno that
doesn't stop until the sun creeps up and taps us on
the head.
After 24 hours on the hop, I'm giddy with the joy of
Ultimate, ready to shout its name to the world and
tell all the party-poopers and cult-busters to get off
my case! Sweat pours off my forehead as I exchange
secret handshakes with fellow cult initiates. Don't
worry, I murmur, we shall overcome. I vow to attend
the next cult gathering in Shanghai and agree to work
on my forehand. Finally, after the final prize for
best partygoer is awarded, I head home, convinced that
I have seen the future and it looks a lot like a
plastic disc.
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Mr. Montlake is a freelance journalist based in
Jakarta.   WJAviaNewsEDGE :PAGE: W9 :SUBJECT: CHIN HKG
INDO SING SPRT USA Copyright (c) 2001 Dow Jones and
Company, Inc. Received by NewsEDGE/LAN: 10-08-01 08:54