This morning I went into a cafe with my mate, his 5 year old and my 3 year old. There was a great booth style table at the back. Everyone was pumped about a milkshake after the park.

The previous patron had left a folded news paper next to the salt shaker and sugar packets. It had a picture of Trump, a picture of Harris and the headline ‘A Nation Divided’ across the top. The majority of the editorial was on the folded down side, I tilted my head to read a few lines as we approached.

As my 3 year old clambered onto the bench seat she narrated her world: “oh look, a plant, out the window. Is this my seat daddy? Where’s the milkshake? 5 sugar packets!”

Delightful childhood patter. When she noticed the colour photos and bold text headline she said: “oh no, it’s politics.”



I’m taking this as a clear assessment of my focus over the last few weeks. Perhaps I need to tone down my consumption. I suspect my little girl is in the majority on this one. “Oh no. Politics.”

Good luck to all the US voters next week. Don’t stuff it up.

I had a good couple of days with the boy this weekend. He’s 7 in a week and enormous, I mean tall. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t help him speak Spanish. This is an issue because every Saturday he goes to 3 hours of immersion Spanish lessons.


Most of the students who attend this class come from a duel language household. It’s a class for Spanish speaking children who attend school in English. Their families want them to study Spanish, as well as be able to chat in Spanish at home. We send our boy because of the Colombian heritage, his interest in learning and because it’s great to have some struggle in life.


He doesn’t have the benefit of Spanish at home, he’s not at a year 1 level in Espanyol, so half of his time in class is with the pre-school aged kids. This means that when I drop him off, he walks into a room filled with very small people. 1 giant 7 year old blond haired gringo into a room of 4 year old Spanish and South American kids.


It’s like a scene from Gulliver’s Travels. I half suspect to find him roped to the floor when I come back to collect him.


Still, a bit of struggle is probably good for him.


Happy birthday Pan man.

Most of the scenes in the old school Mary Poppins movie centre around the kids and their magic nanny. Certainly most of the fantastical Disney Magic moments are about Mary doing feats of amazement which spin the kids around and teach them kind, but very firm life lessons.


Think about cleaning your room as a game, and you’ll not hate cleaning so much. “Just a spoon full of sugar…etc.” The kids write the letter calling for a special nanny, their father tears it up and in place drafts a stern advertisement in its place. Mary arrives on a flying umbrella, blows all the other nanny applicants away and presents the formally torn up letter to a stunned Mr. Banks. Magic. The Banks children are overjoyed.


This isn’t my take, but it’s right. Mary Poppins isn’t there for the kids, she’s there for the dad. It’s Mr. Banks who takes a sweeping story arch through the movie and arrives at the end a changed man. The rigid head of the household and pillar of the empire shackles are released and he laughs. He finds time to fly a kite with his children, this would never have happen before Mary.


It’s difficult to watch the 1963 classic and not wonder about how much time I’m spending at the bank and how much time I’m flying a kite with the kids. In real life both are important, there are things that have to be done as a parent and adult. But you sure do have to give some of your best self to your family, not just the bits that are left over after work.


Our baby girl is three today. She had a Pink themed party, and in 2024 I ask you!


It was a delight, and I felt like I definitely flew the kite a bit today.

The road was very straight. I can see it rising up out of my memory and doesn’t have a single turn in it between Seattle in 2013 and Melbourne this evening. Straight and slightly up hill. The surface is gray concrete rather than black tarmac and is crisscrossed with lane markings, slanting cracks and tire marks. 2 lanes up and 2 lanes straight down.


The houses either side are single story and modest, and the glass city looms tall below me at the distant bottom of the hill. Every plant in that wet city 11 years ago was a powerful green. Some dark, some emerald, but all coloured in to their fullest green, no white showing. Tufts of bright grass burst vibrantly up through cracks in the grey-white sidewalk.


We walked across the street and wandered down the hill from Kelly’s house. I was in town for a brief visit and I slept on the couch. The two cats stayed at home. It was warm, summer I think, though I can’t remember exactly. A long, slow, warm evening, with a viscous, darkening air all around.

The restaurant was a simple rectangular box, white on the outside and timber panelled on the inside. They only made 1 thing. Pho.


We ordered two bowls. They were hot and aromatic. Spicy to the point that perspiration sprang onto my forehead and I regularly tilted my head up to take big relieving breaths of the thick air. Noodles. Broth. Salt. Shoots.


I don’t remember the words we said. I do remember the theme. Grief and loss, the future and the past. The confusing direction of life. The quality of the Vietnamese noodle soup. Choices that needed to be made. It was wholesome and important.


Last night I sat in Melbourne and all of that memory sprang up to ambush me. It jumped out of cover on both sides and swung me back in time and place. That memory had been lurking there just waiting for the right moment to return to the conscious front and centre. As a large hot bowl of Pho arrived at my table last night, the memory pounced.


I enjoyed both the noodle soup and the memory with gratitude.

In the hours before the Grand Final on Saturday, I wore a Brisbane Lions jersey around the neighbourhood in Sydney.


It was a big day, us vs them, the first time Sydney had played Brisbane for the Premiership. I scanned up and down the street before I walked out in the morning. The jersey was a strong statement.


I went to the corner store, the family visited a favourite cafe, then a local thrift shop. There was a lot of feedback and commentary from the community. “You’re brave.” “Up the Swannies!” “You’re in the wrong town Bub.” Actual quotes from Sydney citizens. Bub!


It was all pretty good natured really, plenty of smiles came with the assumed rivalry. I suppose nobody really knew what kind of footy nut I might have been.


Not too much of a nut as it turns out, and I had lots of good chats with footy fans around the suburb. The prevailing theme was that everyone just wanted a “good game”. A performance from their team that they could be proud of. Something exciting to watch and enjoy, the thrill of a close contest. Everyone was calling for that. So was I.


Anyone who follows Aussie rules knows this isn’t what happened, sadly. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make.


The interesting experience for me was hearing everyone hoping for a contest rather than a win. Myself included. It was almost uniform across the people I had bantered with. I’ve been thinking about it since. There is a chance that it’s a pure footy motive, an impartial interest in the beauty of the sport played to perfection. A chance.


My feeling is that they, we, were wishing for a close game to protect ourselves from the pain of loss. The pain of hope. Maybe if we only kind of want something to happen, then it won’t hurt so much of it doesn’t. Self protection by lowered expectations.


This is probably fine when you’re watching other people chase their goals. However, if it’s your own ambition that you erode and compromise through fear that it won’t happen, surely you’re pinching your performance.
If you’re the person playing or going for the job, then telling yourself you don’t really want it is a problem.

Be brave and plan for a win, even though it’ll hurt if you lose. Easy to say…



Also, up the Lions.

“Little bit of sailing stress this week.” “Good strong levels of challenge and adversity.” “Incredible opportunities for resilience growth.”


These are the statements I proffered when talking about my school sailing trip this week. The 13 students who were with me said it differently. I’ll get to that.


First I’ll attempt to describe the session in brief. We sailed from the club, up the river to a huge bridge. It was a clear target, and more than half of the boats made it. Something to be proud of. It was moderately windy, and against the tide. A good challenge.


On the way back we sailed down wind which was more straight forward. Half way back, the wind doubled, then increased again. The change was very sudden, beyond the forecast and very difficult to sail in. All 8 of the boats were knocked over multiple times. The sailors scrambled around the bottom and sides of the hulls to pull the sails up out of the water, then tried to continue on. Then they got knocked over again.


The coaches, in their support motorboats, raced around offering assistance and advice. Only 3 of the boats could sail in, the others where towed. 2 sails were lost to the harbour and one of the students was pushed by the wind and tide well past the club and down towards the other bridge.


It was frightening at times and very physically and emotionally demanding.


After showers and food we sat in a circle on the warm grass and talked. Every week we reflect, this week we talked about something each person was proud of. It was a wonderful 20 minutes of vulnerability and pride. And ‘survival’ stories.


Wow.


An interesting element of the session happened the next day. As I walked around the school teaching classes and moving through the playground I spoke to most of the sailors. They were dry and warm and safe from sudden inversion into salty water.


Everyone wanted to say in their own way that ‘yesterday was a bit traumatic, don’t you think sir?’ Not surprising really. It was though, unusual in the need to share. I could sense that every student I talked to wanted to confirm that their unique experience was similar, or at least recognised by somebody else who was there.


Some said they were really scared. Some said it was fun and thrilling. Some said their leg hurt from a boat knock or a rope getting hooked. Some said they had been overconfident and humbled. Their experiences were unique to them, yet all wanted to validate that the things they felt and saw were correct, normal, acceptable or shared. It was a key part of the process of synthesising the experience into their expanded worldview. The sharing was critical.


I imagined the repeated internal dialogue went: that was scary, I was scared, am I ok? Was that normal and did I do alright? Ok, it was crazy, even Sir said it was. I was scared but also I’m proud. I’m uncertain about next week. What if it happens again? I am going to go back so I can feel proud again. That was crazy.


All of them said they’d be back next week, which is a mighty achievement. We’ll see next Thursday.

It’s finals time in the footy. This is big news or completely irrelevant depending on your inclination and interest.


On Saturday the Brisbane team should have lost. The Sydney team should have won. It was a very large margin, pretty late in the game. Brisbane kept trying and it worked, the Sydney team kept trying and it didn’t. The Brisbane team completed the second biggest finals comeback in Footy history. The biggest was decades ago during the amateur era.


Sydney shouldn’t have lost. But they did. The same was kind of true for their game the week before, they shouldn’t have lost that either. The pain.


I’m not trying to draw this out as some kind of sporting sadist. While I’m jubilant about the Brisbane win, I’m also drawn to wonder what you do with loss like that. I do mean ‘loss’, rather than ‘a loss’. They lost a game certainly, but they also lost their season and chance at glory, it’s bigger than a single game in the football context. I hope wondering about it can be instructive beyond sport.


I’m mainly intrigued about the reaction I suppose, the various possible ways a person could move forward from an experience like that. There is clearly some kind of balance between sitting with it and turning to the next opportunity. The play the extremes out, it doesn’t sound great to be focussed on a major life loss years after it happened. The converse, of never truly thinking about it and charging forward to another distraction also feels flawed.


For me when I’ve faced staggering loss I’ve found it helpful to record it in writing so that I don’t feel compelled to record it upon by being. The process of steadily moving the feelings through and then away from myself has led to a sense of removed familiarity with the suffering. Coupled with the next adventure or challenge to arrive feels like a strong two sided approach to a heavy loss.


I’ll always remember the shocks and pains, however I’m not compelled to keep the intensity of the feelings at the core of myself.


In summary, one way forward after a loss I’ve found, is to write and talk the experiences over until they are things you’re able to remember, but not always suffer from as you step forward into the next chance to win or lose.

Here are 2 photos of me trying alternative methods to cope with a 44 point deficit mid way through the 3rd quarter.

The last World Championships, prior to the week just gone, were 8 years ago.


On a field in London in 2016 the Dingoes (Open), Firetails (Women’s) and Barramundis (Mixed) national teams left the World stage. They went quiet, as they always do. Players held memories close, people wore their old hats to league and young talent occasionally watched a historical quarterfinal on YouTube. All the while the quadrennial cycle turned slowly, the flames of the national teams burned down and glowed like embers.


The teams reformed in 2019 to play in the Asia Oceanic champs, then were snuffed by COVID. Dark and quiet. The teams came back for Asia Oceanic again last year, and have now, finally, just burned brightly again at the World Championships. The very best teams and players from around the world. It was a first ‘home’ championships for the Australian teams. They did great. 2 bronze medals and a 4th place. I was on the Gold Coast to watch all week, and it was an excellent exhibition of the sport. Well done to the players, staff and particularly the tournament organising group. Matt Ryan, respect.


The metaphor that continued to come forward for me was the flame, carried carefully across that long 8 year journey from 2016 to 2024. The few players who were on our national teams as rookies back then, were now captains and champions. Their job was to call back the passion and kindle a new generation of frisbee flames.


It would be true for all nations and teams, for the governing body, frisbee media and the tournament organisers themselves. I was struck but how wonderful it was to see the players, teams and global community burning bright again at the best event of the 4 year long calendar. To be particular, the World Championships is not wholly the highest level (World Games and US Nationals) nor is it the biggest (World Club Champs), however I regard it to be the true highlight of the sport. Every nation is invited in every division, and to win at the World Championships is a crowning achievement in frisbee. I imagine.


This week just gone was a beauty. Hot sun, fast fields and passionate, spirited competition. I hope the coaches and players struggled and triumphed in appropriate proportion. I hope in the days after the event they’re relieved it’s over and wishing it could all happen again. Mainly though, I hope that a new generation of people have felt the heat and excitement and will carry the World Championship flames forward with them.


It will get dark and cold as they go away to remember, plan and build.


I know the embers will glow.

I’m at the World Championships with my family. My wife is playing, our parents are here watching, brothers and sisters have come to see and my children are roaming around the sidelines. Also, for the first time the tournament is being played in Queensland, where I began to play, so the field complex is full of the heroes of my frisbee past, and their kids! One of my Brisbane frisbee leaders’ sons is now a young frisbee charger.


Yesterday I lost my car keys. It was hard to search the complex to find them because I kept finding old friends instead to chat to. Today I lost my baby for 5 minutes, same thing “Mike Neild, long time.” Kept emerging from friends and old teammates as I scampered around.


Manuel from Bogotá came to say hello and remind me of the time I stayed with him in Colombia. Davide from Bologna told me the truth of frisbee and life for half an hour as the Barramundis won through their first game on the show field. Simon from Medellin found me and gave Paterson a team Colombia bracelet. I gave him my Dingoes shirt in 2016 when he was the captain of the U19 Colombian team.


The whole thing is a great big frisbee family gathering.


Today I was over watching the Aussie men’s team play, but I was wearing my women’s team supporter shirt. Go Dani. Some friendly parents of one of the players introduced themselves and asked me if I was a parent of a player too.

Happy Father’s Day.

Photo credit to Anson - thanks mate.

I’ve been thinking about teams again, Frisbee teams certainly, but also work teams and maybe even family and friend ‘teams’.


Over the weekend I was with one of the great teams of my life, the 2004 Dingoes Australian Frisbee team. We had a 20 year reunion, and there were a lot of nostalgia laden reflections from the players about why we were all there. We’ve all been in a lot of teams, but have not been to many reunions. I’m feeling curious about why some teams build stronger bonds than others?


My unscientific context for this discussion is the following list of international frisbee teams I’ve been on, and the number of team reunions those teams have had:


2004 - Bronze - 11 year reunion, 20 year reunion.
2006 - Silver
2008 - 5th
2009 - Bronze
2013 - Silver - 3 month? reunion. Talk of a 12 year reunion.
2014 - 4th
2015 - Gold
2016 - Bronze - 5 year reunion (Zoom call during COVID)
2023 - 5th




The obvious driver of connection, good feelings and reunion action is success. The 2004 team was excellent, we beat good teams on our pre-tour, we won against nations that Australia historically hadn’t and we claimed the first medal for our country at the Ultimate World Championships. Over the 20 years since we’ve all obviously recalled the great team and good times fondly which has increased our inclination to remember and reunion.


Surely though there is more going on than just success. People love their sport, work, social and familial teams for more than just how well they do. Other thoughts I’m having as a part of this rumination are around personalities, connections, experiences and care. The 2004 Dingoes were fortunate in all these areas.


Any group of people will have a range of individuals, all different and wonderful. They will not always share similar values, vision and inclinations though. In good teams the aligning and complementary mix of personalities are able to come forward, while the distracting and destabilising elements of incompatible attitudes are accepted and managed. When this isn’t done well it can be damaging to the team and the way people feel about the whole thing.


Groups that are able to make strong connections through mutual appreciation, aligned goals or a shared world view must be more successful at creating lasting relationships, trust and love. It’s not just the individuals and their unique elements within a team, it’s the way people and players interact to build something new that is important.


Another piece that clearly unifies people into a desirable team are the quality and quantity of the shared experiences. The power of striving together, suffering and succeeding, as well as deep experiential understanding of another person is significant in team building. The pain of loss and the joy of victory both seem to create heat-tested bonds. Something I heard repeatedly mentioned at the Dingo reunion was that it’s a small group of people who understand how significant the team, and that adventure, is in our lives. Certainly it’s a little different for each person, however in the main, we were there together and so we understand.


The final team building element that is in my mind after the weekend of reflection is care. It’s important for a great team to have some people who are thinking about the state of the team as much as they are thinking about themselves. The culture, tone or vibe of the group. The way a team does what it does. The general awareness of team culture seems greater to me now than 20 years ago. I think when team culture building is done well it is a clear performance enhancer, and must also be part of the positive way team members feel.


Care, experiences, relationships, personalities, success. A non exhaustive list of factors that impact teams, for good or bad.


The last thing I’m thinking about around these concepts, particularly with the next teams in mind is influence. You can influence elements around a team, however I think you can also attempt to manufacture a team tone and get it wrong. Wonderful teams are wonderful because they are grown in the space between many people. An individual, or small group, can’t transplant a team onto a group of people. There must be space to evolve and emerge.


My feeling is that watching closely, listening to the rustles within a group, testing and trialling ideas, then turning the volume right up on great team moments and behaviours as they come is a good way forward. Celebrate the good, critically analyse the bad, patience and observation in-between. Build great bonds.


Then simply sit back and enjoy the wait until the reunion.