Frolf?

Ladies and Gentlemen:

Welcome to my inaugural inter-log, an endeavor long in the making, and rife with tragic complications. I think by now we all know the sordid details of how this blog came to be, and the less we say of it here, the better. I only want to stress one thing: Debbie, I've saved every shed tear in a mason jar. I pressure-cooked that jar and placed it in the cupboard, and I'll be damned if you're not going to choke on those tears over the coming months.

So that's out of the way.

When I initially thought about writing a blog, I thought I might set my sights on my Sisyphusian struggle to quit smoking. I thought long and hard about that, and--not before burning through a pack and a half of smokes--decided I'd better broaden my focus. And since I don't even broaden half-assed, I decided to write about whatever the hell I want. Today: frolf!

First, I must acknowledge my friend Chris, who--not knowing whether I played this game--gave me a set of two discs for Christmas last year. Thank you, Chris. It's a gift I plan on using quite a bit this summer. I never would have taken it up without your thoughtfulness, and I appreciate it. Now, on to other musings about this sport.

Just what is "frolf"? Well, it has the reputation of being one of those sports like bowling, wherein people really excel at it under various forms of intoxication. I wouldn't know if that's true, because the bar I set when I played it today would clothesline a leprechaun. In any case, I think the fact that people call it "frolf" adds credence to the intoxication principle. I played this goofy-but-wonderful game for the first time today, and I really enjoyed it. However, because I'm an uncoordinated buffoon, I had to rationalize a few things on my walk back to my apartment.

First, the name: Frolf? Really? Must you? Well, I for one have resolved never to use this term in polite company. I will say frisbee golf, or, on a day when I'm feeling fairly pedestrian, disc golf. But then I wondered: what else can I call it? Names matter, after all, and I won't cheapen the sport by being tasteful for the first time in my life. I settled on two alternative names, both of which I think you'll agree have a certain utility. The first: saucer hockey. Now, this name has its problems. Sure, saucer hockey has goals, of sorts. You throw your saucer toward a hole, or basket, or goal. Of course, there are no goal-keepers, no defenders, and no skates. Nonetheless, I think this name has a certain Jenny SayQua.

Before I get to my second alternative name, I need to reiterate how bad I am at this sport. My first throw, with my distance driver, flew sharply toward the ground, landing about twelve feet from me with a sharp abatement of any forward motion. Keep in mind, there were plenty of other people at the course who no doubt witnessed my shenanigans. At this point, I almost gave up and went home. However, I persevered, stalked a few other players to pick up pointers re: technique, and before long I was throwing my long drives with a forehand (as opposed to backhand) motion. This suited me. After a bit of fiddling, I managed to land my disc (or puck?) about two feet from a basket (or goal?) on my first throw. That was heartening. However, I must have gotten dizzy at the height of my own personal bell curve, because things went less smoothly from there. Apart from losing my newfound technique, I also wandered around the course like Moses on the Sinai, just looking for the beginning of the next hole (rink?), and then trying to figure out which basket to throw at. There is a map at the first hole, but none of the subsequent holes have the map, so it was tough going. I didn't want to walk back to the first hole every time I couldn't find the next one in my rotation, and my memory isn't what it used to be. In fact, it was never that good to begin with. The long and the short of it is that I was lost quite a bit. This is something we can work around, so I'm not too worried about it.

My second alternative name for disc golf stems from my ineptitude at it. Ready? Here it is: making out with a beautiful girl. Why? you ask. Think of the implications. When someone asks, "What did you do today?" I can say, "Oh, I made out with a beautiful girl." If somebody says, "You look like you're in a grotesque amount of pain," I can say, "Yeah. I dislocated my shoulder making out with a beautiful girl." Perhaps most disturbingly, I can say to a girl, "So....You wanna make out?" If she responds with a gag and a no! I can tack to starboard and clarify: "Oh! I was only asking if you wanted to play disc golf!" If she responds in the affirmative, I can conveniently take on the entirely reasonable assumption that she's unfamiliar with my jargon, and then....Well, look out, world! You see how this works. Do you? Do I? Now I just don't know. What's...wrong with me? I mean, am I just cruising for heartache? Might I not have fallen into a subconscious trap? Let's face it: maybe the only reason I came up with this name for disc golf is because both the sport and the smoochy alternative would elicit the same degree of pity/revulsion from anyone watching me do either. God. I'm disgusting. Don't look at me. Just...just....I don't know.