Near the sleepy suburb where we live, there is a frisbee golf course. I walk through this course almost every day, even though I don’t know how to play frisbee golf and never have, because it runs its way through the most beautiful woods within walking distance to my house.
When we first moved here, I figured nobody really used the frisbee golf course. If you haven’t seen these courses before, they are pretty basic—just metal stakes coming out of the ground with net-like chains meant to catch the frisbees. In college, the guys played using the campus’ many bronze statues as goals (holes? flags?), proving that you don’t even need those stake things.
It turns out that the frisbee golf course is in almost constant use—groups of aging millennials with dogs form most of the larger parties, but almost every time I walk there I see some young-to-middle-aged man with a backpack, making his way from stake to stake with a kind of solemnity of purpose that I don’t usually associate with something as flippant as a frisbee. I guess they’re practicing, but I’ve never seen a large group of men playing, so I’m not entirely sure what they’re practicing for. Maybe there’s a regional competition, like the corn hole championship that played on the TVs when my husband and I were at Buffalo Wild Wings?
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