Receptacle

What else would I be doing? Do you see how quickly I'm blurring? I'm reminded that I ask jars of questions. I open my computer. I open my cell phone. I step out of my pick-up truck and walk in the mud. What else would I be doing?

You know that thing about one man's trash. Disc golf is not a treasure. Disc golf is a sport. I like to play it with a beer in my bag. I prefer courses overrun with leaves. Have you ever heard 20 chains rattling against a pole? I prefer when Layne is there, her camera more often at the trees. 

Still, I asked her to take this photo. Look at my left foot ready to leave, forever. You can't make it out, but that hat is stitched with the Circle City Acers patch. That hat holds more than my head. That jacket is not mine. Jason left it in his closet. Jason left Elwood disc golf for Texas.

You know the story about Elwood's disc golf course being dug out of the old city dump. Today, I looked left from the teepad of hole 7 and noticed the mound covered in dirt, in leaves, bits of neon green easily mistaken for a lost driver. Scattered about are baby doll heads from the 50's. Perfume bottles made of whatever can last that long. A black tube like the one that sucked our sewage from the camper when I was a kid.

Today, I introduced myself to a man I've met 7 times. He spoke of an island hidden away, a secret place to research cloning. Also, that new Wes Anderson movie. The movie two people who mean the most to me dressed up as for Halloween and I had no idea. What else should I be knowing? 

Layne informs me of things like this. Like the dark creeps in on my brightest disc. I want to call Jason and ask him how his disc flies in the Texas heat. I want to see if that guy has another story to tell, a cross-country van trip to California, a raccoon dead in a log where he found three unmarked discs. I want to call them all back here, so I can empty every disc from my bag and have help finding them. It's getting dark. It's time to throw away this beer can. 

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.