(Note: This poem is written from a RHBH perspective.)
You pull into the parking lot
To check out Alden's disc golf spot.
Phil Arthur too, from former years;
Champions were molded here.
Prodigy baskets, standing green,
Spit like none you've ever seen.
I warn you, golfer, there is pain;
Weak side will rocket off the chains.
Hole one, a gap ahead to throw.
Watch out for walkers down below.
A little drift would be real smart.
Fade to the left, and that's a start.
Hole two, a gully down the right.
Tread carefully, turn over tight.
If hitting cage or hitting band,
The disc will roll to nowhere land.
The famous three, the uphill nuke.
It makes short throwers want to puke.
To get up there, you'll need a bomb,
But fade out left, you'll cry for mom.
Hole number four, the uphill flick.
Short right can mean a bogey quick.
Five is just a hyzer dump.
Big skip, and there's a nice fist pump.
Six, a gorgeous downhill trip.
Start left and get the disc to flip.
Soaring through the Georgia air,
But left is dense; thrower beware.
Hole seven, putter down the hill.
The gap is tight, but don't feel ill.
My tip; the better miss inside,
And flick release can make gap wide.
Hole number eight, three-thirty feet.
Finesse shot right down the main street.
Give the disc some flip and loft,
And try to land that baby soft.
Nine pin can be in any place,
But chuck up hill, get stable late.
If it's a four, it's not a cinch;
The left side can be quite a pinch.
Ten, an easy downhill flick.
A score of three, you're feeling sick.
Eleven, lots of open air
To shape lines out to anywhere.
Forehand though it may appear,
The backhand line is better here.
Twelve, a hyzer with finesse.
Holding line, but fading less.
And one time, with a perfect throw,
My first ace came on this here hole.
Number thirteen, valley awaits.
There's room to right, but throw it straight.
It's good to throw with healthy fear;
The wind can really screw you here.
Fourteen, another hyzer flip.
To get uphill is quite a rip.
Then left to right gets to the pin.
A nose-up shot could sail right in.
Hole fifteen, a putter, please.
You'll want to throw this with some ease.
And if you're looking for a thrill,
Hit the ace or sail downhill.
Sixteen, the scary tunnel shot.
Throw straight and hard with all you've got.
A slope is all around the hole;
So pray to God it doesn't roll.
Seventeen, a downhill blast.
Fairway looks open, narrows fast.
And if your upshot hits a tree,
It's not too hard to roll OB.
Hole eighteen, a final foe.
Left to right will be the throw.
Roots near the basket, all around;
Lay up left, and putt in down.
And that's a wrap, eighteen holes.
Some good, some bad, some lame, some bold.
Lots of different pins in place
In Sequoyah's prior unused space.
But that is what our sport does do.
Once fallow land, now lives anew.
This place showed me what I can be.
Just a dork, in a park, throwing discs, at trees.
Thanks for reading this here poem.
This little course, it feels like home.
"God bless America, and God bless the backhand turnover."