Where do I go? Where do you go? Where did you go? Where did I go?

We enter the time. The Throwdown in (count it!) two days. This week as preparation and how do I feel? As misdirected as those trees. Imagine how bad their heads ache? Step closer and see the marks from errant throws. Bend down and see the mulch barely covering the glass. Did I ever tell you the story about the disc golf course cut into the woods that grew out of the city dump?

 

That song about "where I come from is cornbread and chicken." Haha at that for a moment, then look up, continue. I spent time 22 years walking my staggered Gobble walk away from Elwood. Elwood: An unwritten Jim Croce song lives and dies here. I'm always amazed when people play disc golf and never come back. Surely, you can find joy anywhere, right? Look at those two trees crossed, the leafy dangling out, can you even find the basket? Remember this is all after the turn. I'm back.

Two days until my first PDGA sanctioned disc golf tourney, me in the lowest level of entry, happy to get my players' pack and see many discs fly in a day. What's causing this headache? Four days until my best Elwood friend and go-to disc dude spends his next 25 years in Texas. Here's another one that bends hard. Five days until Layne and I take over his lease. Take the inside route and you've got to be greasy as hell. Out wide is mighty far. Whatever you do, hope it turns and turns hard.

A wildman is a fella who pulls the black chip and plays the doubles tournament alone. Do-overs all day, man. But wait, where'd you go? Teach me how to pack this thing up. It's team time and you're alone. My first 24 years of practice. The other day I heard "a cunt hair" used as a unit of measurement. I wear my camouflage jacket because it's cold. Elwood is starting to take notice. Sometimes you throw twice, and they end up right next to each other. I'm finally learning what the numbers mean. Another way to say: I start to take notice.