So What Are You Going To Do Now?

 

Sitting at my table/desk/window-onto-white-nothingness I felt compelled to share some of this dreariness with the rest of the world.  And so, here we are.  

The razor is charging
The sprite is carboning
The cattle are not to be found

The windows are oozing
Ever so slowly
Bittle by bittle on down

Isn't that how it goes?  That, were it titled, might be, "Ode on a Plain White Wall," or perhaps, "Ode to the Liquid That Doesn't Really Flow."  It is, however, mercifully untitled.  It does reflect clearly (ahem) on the status of Doug in disc golf remarkably well, if you know where to look.  

Ah, yes, and where might that be?  Anywhere, I say, anywhere, because there's no disc and no golf to be found in it, much as there has been neither disc nor golf to be found around me lately.  This, I'm pleased to say, will end this weekend in beautiful Augusta, Georgia.   (And before you start in about how it's bleak and barren, I have irrefutable proof that it is actually the most beautiful place on earth.  We had a guy visiting from British Columbia, Canada, which is held by many with a sharp eye to be among the most jaw dropping places around.  Now this lad (who shall remain nameless) came to our fair state and played some fair rugby with us before returning to the great green north.  A scant few months later he actually returns voluntarily to Georgia.  Augusta, no less.  So there.)

I don't expect to win.  In fact, I know I won't (maybe can't) because I've decided I don't particularly want to.  See, after I got back from the monster world championships road trip I got to thinking.  I'd played some amount of disc golf every day, often two or three rounds, for almost a month and was not yet sick of the game.  I was sick of the road and the food and of not being around available women.  I was sick of the truck and the broken CD player and the diesel.  I was sick of writing letters instead of hanging out, of not playing rugby, of my bottle of anti-bacterial soap.  I even thought I was sick of being a bad golfer.

I was going to come home and putt (since I do have a basket tucked away neatly under my steps), I was going to work on the seemingly simple act of throwing an aviar straight.  I was going to get my game together, and I had a target date.  Earlewood.  November 6th.  

No more.

Why?  Because I don't care about the tiny difference between being a really bad golfer and being marginally mediocre.   I don't care about the difference between being a bad advanced player and a forgettable pro.   There are other things I'd rather do.  I haven't quite been coaching rugby this season, but I haven't quite not.  And I really like it.  I think if I knew what I was doing I might really really like it.  Now, I haven't stopped going to the intramural fields and throwing, mainly because it's fun and pretty decent way to meet women (no, really, I swear) but I don't think I'm ever going to practice putting again.  I might drag my basket to some cool piece of land and make up holes to go with it. I might haul its rusty arms and legs forth to play HORSE or figure out if I can really bounce a putt into the basket consistently and not kill the putter.  It's very likely that someday I'll wrestle it from its lair and see if it really is possible to barbeque with it.   But for now it's sitting there so peacefully now that I hate to disturb it.

Oh, as a sidenote.  The course record at Wills for a forehand only round (including putts and all that jazz and not allowing tommy-hawks and suchlike nonsense) is +4.  If you've shot better, let me know, I need some incentive to push myself to the all forehand limit (which I sincerely hope is significantly better than four over).

Doug's thoughts on nothing in particular