My Life in a Moment -or- Relativity as it Applies to Disc Golf

While I almost never leave the disc golf course without something to talk about, a while ago something happened in two seconds that changed my perspective on the sport as well as my perspective on life.

Turning a wooded corner, thinking of nothing but the long hyzer I had to throw to get birdie chance on hole three, I came upon something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Even though I rounded the trees at my normal brisk pace, she didn’t startle when I stepped right in front of her. She had been standing there by herself for reasons unkown, surrounded by the falling leaves of burnt orange and brown. Her long hair framed her smile, her dark eyes peacefully looking into mine as if she already knew the questions and the answers. The trees, knowing full well their obligation to such events, showered us with colored leaves.

Dear reader, I adjure you, a man does well to not forfeit much time courting somebody he knows to be so complementary to his own nature. We dated just long enough for our parents to stop saying, at least in public, that we were rushing into things. The engagement was likewise as short as we felt necessary. The church buzzed with excitement. It was just a bit too small, and a few latecomers from my family stood in the back to catch the last glimpses of our single lives. I would find out after the ceremony that when we kneeled together, the assembled crowd could read the words “love her” written in white marker on the bottom of my shoes, with an arrow pointing to my bride. Months later, while playing disc golf with my best man and a few other members of the wedding party, I found out it was actually the second thing he wrote on my black wingtips, having originally been panged by the guilt of debasing something so divinely guided. He had used acetone to remove his original words: help me.

On our honeymoon we rode on the Trans-Siberian railroad, taking a side trip into Mongolia. The clarity with which I saw the distant mountains through the front door of the yurt was enough to leave me spell-bound, standing transfixed on the horizon as the morning chill blew in off the steppe, making her unconsciously grab the comforter and roll over.

We made good habit of traveling to off-beat places. Anywhere remote or overlooked became a destination spot. Our friends joked we spent more time in our two person, 1979 North Face tent than we did in the queen-sized bed I had bought myself as a birthday present during my bachelor days. She was never more radiant than in the fall, her brown hair falling disheveled over her soft shoulders. She knew I would be staring at her every time I had the chance. Our eyes locked, but grew hesitant. Leaves skittishly let go of their branches and rushed to the ground.

Something in the woods rustled and the movement forced me to leave the gaze of the beauty my eyes had grown accustomed to for the last two seconds. As if appearing out of thin air, her boyfriend appeared out of the woods with the satisfaction of having just found a lost disc. Looking back I smiled, though a different smile, and said hi. Stepping up to the tee pad, I pulled my Rogue out of my bag, and ripped a colossal forehand drive. It flew directly into the ground, 45 feet in front of me. I looked over my shoulder for the chance to see her one more time, only to find she had been watching my throw.

“Well, looks like I killed some poor innocent worm on that one” I said, not nearly as disappointed in my drive as I was in losing my wife of two seconds. I headed down the fairway debating in my mind whether I should use a mid-range or a fairway driver for the next shot.

I bogied.