When I came to college three years ago, I had a faint idea as to what the sport of disc golf (now referred to as Frolf) was. I had a few friends who caught the Frisbee fever in high school, but I didn’t understand the phenomenon. They are discs. You throw them into a silver, chain-strung basket. What’s the big deal?
I feel like a Frisbee is something every family has in a bin in their garage, but no kid ever gets excited to go outside and throw the Frisbee with dad. Maybe it’s because of the patent issue. Is it a flying disc? Is it a Frisbee? [All Frisbees are discs but not all discs are Frisbees. There, it’s settled.]
Nobody ever buys a Frisbee. They’re found at promotional tables and stamped with corporate logos. Let’s face it, Frisbees are the crappy, plastic toy that is the last thing to get used. “Oh we’ve played everything else since mom kicked us out of the house, we could throw the old Frisbee around.” If anything, it’s used as home plate for a driveway baseball game.
Then, freshman year, everything changed as I walked down the hill into Laura Bradley Park; my free time was forever dissolved. My friend had a set of discs his dad had given him, and invited us all to play. We had so much fun that I asked my family to get me a cheap starter set for Christmas.
Since then, Frolfing has become an addiction, and a healthy one at that. Growing up playing team sports, I never realized the significance found in the maddening pursuit of attempting to beat my own score. Disc golf is a psychological battle mixed with physical shortcomings. It is flawless technique combined with brute strength, but you never really know which gives you the true advantage. Simply put, it’s a metaphor for life.
Over the past couple of years, Frolf has been a source of friendship. It’s brought together friends of mine from all different circles of campus. It gives people a chance to get outside and enjoy the fresh air. It’s a great social activity, that is, until the laughs turn to spite and the competition gets under the skin of even the most reserved individuals. Tantrums are thrown, disappointment is imminent, but each tee box brings new opportunity for success.
It’s the same course every day, but it plays different every time. In the spring, the wind catches every throw. In the summer, the heat and humidity take a toll on your endurance. In the fall, the leaves cover the ground, enveloping discs and frustrating the heck out of everyone trouncing through the woods. In the winter, the river freezes and you can play shots while standing on the ice. Different factors and scenarios influence our everyday and “every-throw” decisions.
I’ve only lost one disc on the course, down the hill on the fourth hole. It was my most reliable weapon, a yellow driver that blended in perfectly with the dead leaves. While I was looking for mine I got lucky and found another rainbow driver; an admirable replacement. Frolf giveth, Frolf taketh away.
Sometimes you just have to go the extra mile that most other people aren’t willing to. As I was walking the course one morning a few weeks ago, I saw it. A brand new white disc sitting in the bottom of the middle of the creek; left for dead by a fellow Frolfer whose drive got away and then decided it just wasn’t worth it. You bet I jumped and fell in to retrieve it. Taking a chance gave me the best disc in my bag.
Sometimes Frolf throws you a curveball and the pin locations are changed. You find yourself aiming for a location that’s totally new. The goals and trajectories of our lives change. Think of how many times people change their major. You can’t just keep aiming at the same spot. Adapting to your surroundings and learning from past experiences is extremely important.
There’s one particular hole in the park that has baffled me for years. Hole number 13 runs through a narrow section of trees, with the creek bordering the course on the left-hand side. There was one massive tree that stands in the middle of the fairway. Its trunk was covered in nicks from innocent discs. There’s a choice to be made. Throw right and land in the trees on the bank of the hill. Throw left and face the chance of a water hazard. Sometimes the choice makes itself clear. This summer that tree was chopped down and the choice was made clear: stay right down the middle.
I’m no professional. I shoot a comfortable +10 most days. I simply enjoy the challenge and comradery that Frolf has brought me over the past three years. The sound of plastic hitting chains has become music to my ears. If you ever have the chance, go play 18 but be cautious. You might not be able to turn down a game ever again.
