The first thing I remember is competing in a disc golf tournament. It was my turn to throw, and basically the setup for this shot was a short distance throw that had to go through a very narrow gap.  There was a building on the right side which was like a small gray house with siding made of overlapping panels.  There was a tournament staff guy who directed me to the tee box area. In this case it was very non-standard; he created the space for me to stand for my throw by pulling the ropes back which were normally meant to prevent the crowd from getting on the playing surface.  He stood on my left and held the ropes, which had some orange tape on them, and I stood on a small patch of grass that was without much run-up area.  In fact, the ground dropped down just a few feet beyond where I stood.  I looked through the gap to try to decide on a line, and noticed that there was a bank sloping down to the right, which was heavily wooded and full of bushes.  Obviously I’d need to avoid that stuff, so a straight shot wouldn’t be ideal.  I asked him, Where’s the green?  He leaned to the left so I could also lean that way, which allowed just a glimpse of the flag on a pole at the pin on the green, around the corner of this house and to the right.  I realized it wouldn’t be a ‘power’ shot so much as a ‘control’ shot.  Right, so I got out a black disc, gripped it for a forehand/sidearm flip shot shape, which would finish to the right (instead of a backhand which would fade to the left).  I threw the disc and the line was spot on, but the power was lacking just a bit, so the disc bounced off the ground on a mound and came to a stop right next to the corner of the house.  Where a better shot would have flown through or perhaps skipped past, this one still wasn’t so bad because it would at least set up a direct line on the next shot.

Then there was a transition, and suddenly the whole perspective had moved around to the other side of the house to a flat grassy area that was putting green and surrounding open lawn space.  It was still daytime, and I guess the ‘approach’ shots had already been taken, because it became apparent to me that it was my turn to putt.  It was a bit weird because now suddenly it had become traditional golf– with balls and clubs.  Also, it was like the event had grown in its profile, as there were more spectators surrounding the green.  I realized then that I needed clubs instead of discs, which I had left in my golf bag, standing up next to the house near where we had teed off. I started heading back up there, noticing that there was a pretty deep dip in the terrain between where I was and where I was going, which were on roughly the same level.  I decided to do a running long-jump style leap as a way of expediting the trip.  That was successful.  I found my golf bag and grabbed my putter, which by-the-way was gold plated.  I headed back with the same intent to jump the gap in the terrain, but noticed that the gap was much bigger this time.  I basically ‘launched,’ catching more air, making a bigger arc in my flight and staying suspended for a substantially longer duration than before.  It wasn’t meant to show off, but being about 30 feet in the air in slow motion must have been quite a spectacle for people on the ground. It turned the heads of a few people in the gallery, as they seemed to anticipate a comic-book-esque three-point landing.  I landed well enough, without any hoopla, then became focused on making the putt.

I noticed that it had transitioned into evening.  I went toward my ball and discovered that it was gone.  The little peg ball-marker was still there, but the ball was obviously missing.  I then saw some friends from elementary and high school off to the side, including a particular joker, Bruce, who liked to antagonize me occasionally.  He had obviously orchestrated a little plot in order to ruffle my feathers, so I went around asking people Where’s my ball, please give it back, stop messing around, etc, but they were all either playing dumb or denying any involvement.  I saw a tournament official walk by with a turquoise coat that looked like a cross between a hazmat suit and a rain jacket, which was peculiar.  I asked him what kind of ‘ruling’ I might get in this situation, where someone had just interfered with play and absconded with my ball.  I’m not sure whether I got any official reply but felt like I got an OK to ‘reload’ by getting new balls out of the bag.  Fortunately I had a metallic-red colored three-pack (aka a sleeve) in my bag, which I pulled out and opened.  I thought to take out two balls, to use one and have one as a backup, but the third also slipped out, so I figured OK well then I’ll hold two backups; no problem.

So then I had a ball to use, but now suddenly my putter was missing.  I looked over at Bruce; he was holding a putter that looked exactly like mine.  I was like OK, very funny, hand it over, etc.  He did but then I realized it wasn’t actually mine; this one’s club head was more rounded, whereas mine was more square– plus it was left-handed so it couldn’t possibly be mine.  So I ditched that one, then discovered what appeared to be the pieces of my putter scattered on a table.  It was in at least three main pieces that formed the internal ‘skeleton,’ and exterior sections making the club-face and bottom panels. Then there were also little plastic partitioned sleeves with dozens of layers of individually colored pieces which I knew had to all be lined up and fit in a particular way.  Then I found another little cluster of tiny metal and plastic rings and washers– about a dozen of those, of course, also needing to be assembled in a very specific way.

So there I was with this necessary task of putting these many pieces together, which was more like a swiss watch than a simple thing like a club, also with the feeling of time pressure for the tournament needing me to just take my shot– so I was feeling frustration on a pretty high level.  I looked over at Bruce and said something like “I’m never going to speak to you again,” or “Don’t ever speak to me again.”  I considered giving him a beating, but knew it would be futile to engage in violence.  The frustration was intense but there was sadness and betrayal too, because their joke which was intended to roil me for this important competition could almost be forgiven and dismissed as childish nonsense, but the extent of it now just felt like deliberate sabotage.

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