My bucket list got a little shorter this past summer. In March 2024, I was playing a friendly match with Julian Petrillo when he had mentioned that Cody Glorioso was putting together a team for the World Kubb Championship in Gotland, Sweden. I’d never met Cody in person, but I had played him in the Keystone Virtual Kubb League and had his number saved on my phone. I immediately texted him that I was interested. He said the team was already full but would let me know if a spot opened up.
I had heard the stories—tales of teams venturing to Sweden, epic matches, the crowds chanting, and the incredible atmosphere. I could still hear John Oman’s voice, recounting his experience, his time in “the cage” in front of the grandstand, and just how amazing the whole thing was. For a kubb player from New Mexico, going to Natty’s was already a pilgrimage. But joining a team and going to Gotland? That was pure fantasy.
But then it happened—I got the call. Cody reached out to say that a spot had opened up if I was still interested. The tournament was only three months away. With little time to plan and no clue how I’d pull it off—I didn’t hesitate, responding with an emphatic, “Yessssssssss!” I would join Cody, along with Trevor Bailey, John Ellingsen, Dan Ivanuck, and Spencer Ollmann as the sixth member of the Kubbicide Squad.
Clearly I make rash decisions. So, to complicate matters, I decided to bring my teenage kids. I mean, how often are you going to travel to Sweden to play kubb? Might as well go all in or stay home, right? It was going to be the trip of a lifetime.
We landed in Visby, Gotland at the height of the summer. The Swedish sun shining on the ancient, medieval town. Ruins scattered among the twists and turns of cobblestone streets. Remnants of an old norse stronghold. This place is straight out of a picture book.
The Kubbicide Squad trickled into Visby. We didn’t all gather until the first morning of the tournament, where we finally assembled on a field on an island in the middle of the Baltic Sea.
The feeling I had was a familiar one. It was the same feeling I had in Eau Claire the first year I pulled up to Natty’s. Dozens of pitches filling a vast field: each meticulously measured. The air was crisp and clear. The dark, dusty Gotland earth beneath wiry grass. The excitement set in. We were here. To play kubb. This is no longer a fantasy.
Although we had never played as a team before, we cruised through our first qualifying group. But we knew, the second day is where the rubber meets the road. No easy matches. We’d be up against the top teams, each believing they could go all the way.
On the second day, in the first match of the group stage, everything clicked. We were perfect—literally perfect. After winning the lag, we hit two kubbs off the baseline and went on to play a flawless game, polishing off the king with our 8th baton. We followed that up with a near perfect game. Only missing one throw. And like that we were off to the races.
We continued to progress finishing in the top spot in our group. We were undefeated so far in the tournament. Not just in our matches. We hadn’t lost a single game. Trevor’s drilling was incredible. Cody was breaking those groups with gusto. Spencer was doing everything right. Dan was solid all day. And then there was John…he was hitting every 8 meter throw. Seriously, I don’t remember him missing. We were on fire. Then came the match up of a lifetime. We were drawn against defending world champions, Stranded Goose.
By now, we were in the knockout rounds. Win and move on, or lose and you’re out. You know the deal. We were assigned to Pitch 1, right by the cage and in the shadow of the grandstand. We were that close.
The crowd started to assemble. Stranded Goose wasn’t just the reigning champs; they were Gotland legends—local boys with a fan following. The chants began: a few voices would belt “Stranded,” followed by a boisterous chorus of “Goose!” I’d never seen or heard anything like it. Tons of spectators gathered around a single pitch, creating a wall of noise. This was the moment we had come all this way for.
We won the lag and started strong. It wasn’t perfect, but it was clinical. We won the first game before Stranded Goose had found their rhythm. The second game was theirs, a near-perfect inversion of the first. They’d come back, swinging. Game three lay before us.
The details of that last game are a blur now, like trying to remember a dream. But I can feel the soft Swedish sun, the thrill of standing with my incredible teammates, our excitement and anxiety held together by a quiet confidence. I hear the crowd—dead silent when we took our throws, bursting into cheers each time Stranded Goose took theirs.
And then it happened. We had one kubb left on their baseline and seven to drill. The tension hung heavy as the crowd sensed what could be the end of Stranded Goose’s run. We’d done this before; we were nearly there. But one throw after another, it started slipping away. Nothing catastrophic—just not great. Three batons in, I was staring down three fence posts, improbable angles for combos, and zero margin for error.
My role for the team was to throw in the third or fourth slot, usually stepping up to clean up a single or easy double. I’d been happy in that role, and had been solid in the weeks leading up to the tournament. But earlier that day, I’d gone a little cold. Missing routine throws, feeling like I wasn’t pulling my weight. But in recent matches, I’d been finding my form again. I was confident again and knew exactly what I had to do.
I took in the moment—my teammates, the crowd, my daughter’s proud face on the sidelines. I was grateful to be here, to share this with them. I saw my angle, stepped up, took a breath, and released.
I don’t recall the finer details of that game, but I’ll never forget the crowd’s reaction as my baton twanged off the post. A deep, guttural “Ohhhhhh,” and then silence. The crowd and I both knew that two batons wouldn’t be enough to finish the job.
My world fell silent. It was the biggest throw of my life—and I missed. I dropped my head, Cody steadying me from behind. Dan and John stepped up to finish the round with some stellar throws, but no miracle combo emerged.
We watched silently as Stranded Goose closed out the game with clinical precision from a very short porch.
In that rarest of moments, I felt a deep sense of failure. It was more than just losing—I felt I’d let down my team, my family, and for a fleeting moment, even my country. I’d done my fair share of losing, but this…this hurt.
It would have been easy for my team to blame me, like I was blaming myself. But they didn’t. Not a hint of judgment or frustration. We were a team, through wins and losses, and everyone was responsible for each other. “600%.” John reminded us. Not individuals, all together.
Stranded Goose went on to defend their title. They finished the final match to raucous cheers, under the lights and the faint glow of the Scandinavian night sky.
Kubb is a funny game. When I look back, I sometimes wonder what it would have felt like to play under those lights, to push just a little further, maybe even win the whole thing. But even though we didn’t bring back the title or any medals, I returned with something far more precious—friendships deepened, memories of a magical place, and a strengthened love for this strange and wonderful game.
And next time I step up for that big throw, I’ll carry this truth with me—whether I hit or miss, my family and my friends will always love me.
