“All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.”

—J. R. R. Tolkien

A few years back, at Iowa Worlds, they asked me to say a few words of greeting at the opening meeting of all the players. I started with something about the memory that I was arguably the best disc golfer on the planet in the summer of 1974. I based that on the fact that I won the shiny new car at the American Flying Disc Open in Rochester, New York. Pretty much everyone who had even heard the term “disc golf” was there and lusting after the amazing prize. My winning margin for 54 holes was something like 17 strokes. Apparently nobody else had really learned to play yet. At the time I already had 20 years of disc throwing experience and a good bit of ball golf training. But ... that was then.

What I said to the assembled masses in Iowa was that as I looked out over them I realized that of the many hundreds gathered there, including the guys waiting on the tables, I was probably the worst golfer. The scoreboard later in the week pretty much confirmed my suspicion. Of course, the really odd thing is that I’m a way better player now than when I won the car, but I’ve just fallen really farbehind the highly motivated mob playing now.

There are a number of reasons I’m so far off the pace, and it’s not primarily because I’ve gotten older. I’m in fine shape, really. I run in a few marathons each year and go to the gym and do yoga and all that stuff. I weigh exactly what I did in 1974 (except for the few ounces of hair loss). I also know lots of amazing players older than I am who are still playing wonderful golf. Peter Shive and John Kirkland come to mind, for example. Their age just hasn’t become that much of a factor yet. It’s also encouraging that my dad, PapaJack is still playing great and he’s about to be 90. It’s not my age.

In fact, I’ve always thought that age was an odd factor for us to focus on for our competitive divisions. It seems to me that there are lots of other more important things that impact our playing ability. Maybe it would make more sense if a player’s handicap would be based on a calculation that includes hours spent at a paying job each week, multiplied by your number of spouses (current, ex and pending), and factored by number and age of kids. Then add in health factors like smoking, excess weight, the cost of your couch and how big your TV screen is.

Give Chuck Kennedy a weekend on this and he’ll produce a much more accurate divisional arrangement than we currently have. And, your golf groups will be way more compatible because you’ll always be with folks who have exactly the same excuses as you do.

But, anyway ... what I want to try to explain is why I still really enjoy competing even though I have mostly terrible results. That’s the thing right there. I say that I have “terrible” results, but that’s only from one narrow (although popular) perspective.

Part of the reason that I enjoy competing is because I like to see how other players perform under the pressure of competition. I’m kind of a student of how people respond to perceived risk. The thrill of competition is the simulated threat. Just like the Super Bowl, we convince ourselves that the outcome really has some significant meaning. Of course, in the grand scale of things, it doesn’t, but that’sbeside the point. When we imagine things as real, they simply are real. Ask any hypochondriac ... It really, truly does hurt!

Anyway ... aside from the fun of being close up to see other people deal with the wonderfully complex challenges of the game, I also am very entertained by my own play. That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes get discouraged. What do we play at Worlds these days? It feels like twenty rounds. It’s something like that. And, as I’ve often noted, every round they seem to put me with worse and worsegolfers. What’s with that? They used to have the first round be by PDGA number. Maybe they still do. That’s cool. My number 3 gets me in there with some really fine folks. Mostly two digit people like Dave Greenwell, Tom Monroe, Jim Palmeri or Michael Conger - long timers who still play extremely well. I never see them again all week after the first round. I’m not sure where they go.

Then I begin to work my way down through different strata of players. Sometimes it’s really good players who just had horrible luck in the first round or it could also be very talented new players who are really just learning the game. They often improve their rating by forty or fifty points just in their round with me, and again, I never see them after that. By the end of the week, I’ve usually found my kindred spirits, the folks who for one reason or another are just not scoring well at all. The stories vary. Some of them are just not athletic enough to be competitive. Others have serious injuries or other physical limitations. I once played with a fellow who was legally blind. As I recall, he beat me.

As I think back on it, I’ve never played a final round with someone else who was once the best player on the planet. It almost makes a fellow want to slink home in shame. But ... I don’t. I almost always have great fun when I compete. Maybe someone will write in after reading this, and report a terrible experience that they had in a round with me, but I’m guessing that most of my companions have hadmemorable fun. Once I get warmed up (my mouth, not my arm), I’m usually busy

getting to know my new buddies. By the end of the round, we’re typically having a great time and kibitzing like long-lost chums. I’ve won (and lost) thousands of one-shot proposition milkshake bets. It’s almost always a hoot. But ... how to have such fun when I’m not scoring well? First of all, I try not to beat myself up. There’s no future in moaning about how great I used to be and how terrible it is tobe playing so badly today. Nobody cares. I also like to think that I know when to keep my mouth shut if I think that my observations would be an intrusion. That’s fine too.

I don’t allow myself to complain (much) because the fact is that I haven’t earned the right to be disappointed in myself and especially not to share that pain with others. Compared with almost everyone else at the event, I am vastly under prepared. My life ratio of practice-to-actual Worlds competition is probably unmatched. Who’d want that distinction? But, the point is, it would be ridiculous for me to be disappointed and amazed when I flub a key shot. I made that decision when I chose to play ddc or go hiking or freestyle or ride the bike instead of practicing my golf. Ah, you say, “I know this guy. He’s from the New Games movement. Didn’t he write the spirit of the game thing for ultimate? Peace and love ... he doesn’t care who wins.” Well, ask any of my friends about that. I am super competitive whether it’s spinning coins on the lunch counter, chess with my dad or a world class ddc match. I LOVE to compete. It is true that I’m not overly concerned about final results, but I fight tooth and nail to outplay, outwit and outlast. So ... again, you might wonder why disc golf is still fun for me since I hardly ever win. I think the key for me is that I’ve successfully deconstructed the game in my mind. For me, it’s truly not about my final placement, or even the score for the round or even, at my best, not the score on the hole. I strive to make my focus exclusively on the execution of each shot as a competition in itself. That compelling challenge is to make each shot be as close as possible to the optimum solution for that particular test of my ability. In short, on each shot (ok, not every single shot), but on most of them, I’m striving for a flash of brilliance ... a moment of greatness. And, surprisingly, I get a good many of them. I love a restricted lie that calls for something like a two-finger upside down shot through the fork of a tree. Sure, I could lay up, but hey, why worry? It’s all about that shot. And, before I shoot, I set it up with something like, “OK fellas, here’s what you paid to see. This baby is going in. Who wants to bet a shake?” And, when it does nail the chains, which is amazingly often, it’s a memory worth keeping. Part of the reason that these shots often go well is that I do have good throwing skills and, because of my mental set, I’m entirely fearless. That’s a good combination. So, I often get to think, “You know, Kenny couldn’t have thrown that any better.” And, it’s true! That’s a pretty good feeling for a guy who’s way out of the money.

But, of course, as you may be thinking, consistency is an important part of the game. Yep, I definitely know that. And, sometimes, by focusing primarily on individual shot making, I actually have some great holes and even some great (ok, good) rounds. Those results, however, are secondary to the fun and challenge of the individual shots. I also know that my consistency is directly proportional to my practice time and maybe I’ll actually dedicate myself to being adequately prepared sometime in the future. For now, disc golf fits nicely into my life and I enjoy virtually every round that I play. Word is that this is not necessarily true for some players with those four-digit ratings. That’s a sad thing.

Now, of course, my approach is hardly breaking news. However, this approach is not just for underperforming bottom feeders. Top players should be focusing in much the same way. In my observation, the very best players are the ones who do this most effectively. Not to trivialize, but life is not unlike golf. Everyone has some double bogeys - everyone. Of course, that’s obvious, but very hard to remember when it’s your turn.

Those who enjoy the game the most (and are champions) have developed the ability to absorb the bogeys better than the typical player. They worry about errors less, both before and after they occur. In doing so, they allow themselves to play more of the time in the zone that is uncontaminated by fear or regret. Of course, they have some of both, but they've learned how to shorten and minimize that part of their thinking process. That allows them to focus on how effectively they can put effort against the current task of each moment rather than dispersing their energy on matters of the past and the future.

Of course, this is all much more easily said than done and it does seem trivial when measured against “real world” issues. However, it is a life skill that can be learned on the golf course and applied to great benefit in other settings. It's also probably something that we need to learn over and over and never completely master ... but, that is the fun of it, right?

Stork #003