This isn’t your parents’ disc golf magazine.


Well, here it is.  The first bit of drivel to come dripping from my fingers, like the eternal sweat of a midsummer’s day on the sunniest part of the course.

High noon. Your one friend is lining up a putt from 40 feet that we all know they aren’t going to make.  But, by God, they’re going to do their damnedest impression of their favorite pro, lining up the angle. Twice.  Then checking the wind.  Maybe also twice.

And let’s not forget the inordinate, rhythmic, and frankly sexual pre-pumping that so many of our square friends can’t seem to quit.

Then, finally, to absolve you of your time in the sun-stricken fairway, your buddy finally misses the goddamn putt.  And they miss low too.  Thing never had a fucking chance.  Neither the ridiculous jump putt routine, nor the egregious foot fault had allowed them to even get a taste of the basket, let alone the chains.

Of course, you already knew that this was coming.  You’ve been here before, and you’ve seen Barney’s come and go.

You’ve seen the fads rise and fall.  You’re still in the game.

You’re either the first one out there, or the last one to leave, or sometimes both.

You’re the dude or dudette who would rather spend 30 minutes putting in the yard than 15 minutes mowing it.

CE Plastic is a precious metal to you.

You’re the type of disc golfer who doesn’t care what the stakes are, as long as the game is being played.

You’re reading Frolfer, and this ain’t your parents’ disc golf magazine.