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The Spirit of the Game, for me, is remembering back to when I was only seven or 8 years old, playing disc golf with my dad and his friends in the Rattlesnake Recreational Area in Missoula, MT.
They (and I) would throw our Wham-Os, our Midnight Flyers and 86 Softies, at marked trees, and we had a blast doing it. With the crisp, mountain air in my nostrils, we would hurl our Frisbees on our 200 foot holes and have a blast doing it.
Everytime I get down on myself for having a bad round or for not playing up to my perceived potential, I think back to those days. The days when I fell in love with the simple flight of a flying disc, floating elegantly towards the target.
They (and I) would throw our Wham-Os, our Midnight Flyers and 86 Softies, at marked trees, and we had a blast doing it. With the crisp, mountain air in my nostrils, we would hurl our Frisbees on our 200 foot holes and have a blast doing it.
Everytime I get down on myself for having a bad round or for not playing up to my perceived potential, I think back to those days. The days when I fell in love with the simple flight of a flying disc, floating elegantly towards the target.
