PGDA

“No no, not PGA, P “D” GA,” the director said. All the guests, in their finest tweed and suede, looked positively indignant. “This is the Professional Disc Golf Association,” the director continued. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you all.”

"Who's disappointed?" It was Mimi Bedrosian, standing up, swinging her arm in a circular motion. She unzipped her bag & it practically burst with disc golf discs—distance drivers, fairway drivers, midranges, & one glow-in-the-dark putter featuring a drawing of a fiery falcon.

“WE’RE ALL DISAPPOINTED!” We shouted back in near-unison. Then some of us chuckled, a few hooted, and two made fart noises. The other people in the plaza looked at us sharply, but we didn’t care. To us, they were zombies.

We were our own tribe - us against the world. The closer we became to one another the further we pushed others away. None of us considered the risk of our group falling apart. None of us saw the cracks until it was too late.

The ceiling finally collapsed under all this pressure. One had to move overseas while another sadly passed away. One by one the members left, until I was the only one left. The Fellowship had been disbanded. I walk the road alone, but my hope will never die.

It wasn’t until years later that my patience was rewarded. An unaddressed letter arrived, sealed closed with a wax imprint of a dove. In it, a typed up note that said only “thank you.” I felt a tear roll down my cheek. This was the sign I had waited for-my service could now end.