Disc Golfing with a Nuclear Scientist
An evening at Victor Ashe Park playing America's fastest growing sport with my former roommate.
Before I married Haley, I lived with a scientist. Soon after moving in, I was disappointed to learn that, despite studying a hybrid form of nuclear engineering and astrophysics, he was not the kind of scientist who’d be capable of blowing up the house after mixing reactive chemicals in the basement.
Instead most of my roommate’s time was spent writing elaborate equations in black marker on a whiteboard in his bedroom, lecturing about the importance of advanced metrics in fantasy baseball, and listening to Kanye West—but only his first three albums. When I asked why, he subjected to me a lengthy explanation consisting of Venn diagrams, lyrical analyses, and bursts of 30-second clips he shuffled through on his iPod. Never again.
Despite his debatable taste in music, the scientist had many endearing qualities. For example, he wore NWO tee shirts in public, flushed the toilet, and had no interest in the stock market. Curious what he’d been up to on the Saturday nights he refused my invitation to go out bar hopping, I attended his dissertation defense at UT in 2019. He spoke for nearly three hours, but it didn’t take that long for me to figure out why I’d often walk in to discover him face down on the couch with either Garth Brooks or Ye’s Graduation album playing at full volume as he caressed my dog Gilda and muttered under his breath that he was a failure.
Although Cody Wiggins—that is his Christian name, though he prefers the moniker ScienceGuy84 for reasons of national security—was not making bombs, he’d been up to something much worse. For years, he’d injected radioactive material into helpless lab mice, then ran them through medical imaging equipment to check for cancer before stuffing them into PVC pipes and blasting them into space with colleagues from Egypt and, for some reason, Pep Guardiola, the head coach of Manchester City Football Club in England.
Though I was horrified, the committee was quite impressed with my friend’s methods; they granted him his PhD on the spot, and I instantly lost all faith in science. (Note: Cody tells me I only comprehended about 2% of what he presented, and while I disagree wholeheartedly, it is true that my primary motivation for attending was to consume the free coffee and donuts he’d purchased to swoon the powers that be into approving of his pseudoscience.)
Shortly afterward, Science Guy married and moved away to Virginia, where he continued his research as an experimental fluid dynamicist before abandoning space mice to work in the nuclear fusion group at Oak Ridge. For those of you non-experts, fusion is not the branch of atomic science that will inevitably cause the extermination of human life (you’re thinking of fission). It is rather a type of welfare for the mathematically inclined, judging from the pitiful return on the investment of taxpayer money by the Department of Energy. Cody couldn’t even use one of his doohickeys to power a lightbulb.
And yet, despite his mooching off the government, I was glad to have my friend back in town because it opened up the possibility of our banging chain again, as we’d done in the years before we had wives and children.
I should explain this.
From 2017 to 2018, whenever a problem threw Science Guy into a funk neither Hulk Hogan nor bad rap music could take him out of, there was one intervention capable of lifting his spirits. The rattling of chains would resonate throughout the house, and I’d emerge on the back porch to find Cody tossing a round plastic disc into what I’d previously assumed was either scientific equipment or a torture device. He said it was neither; it was a disc golf goal. Then he invited me to partake of its pleasures with him.
The course at Morningside Park was a short drive from our place on Woodbine Avenue, and we played a handful of times. It took only one round for me to realize the sport was essentially ball golf, except it was not boring and did not require me to have wealthy parents. I liked it, though not enough to play alone or with anyone else except my welfare-dependent friend.
As I shared when I wrote about my pipe-smoking rendezvous with the Apocalyptic Cowboy, I’m trying to get out more. Rather than hanging out online, I am spending more time with friends, acquaintances, and strangers who do cool things to learn more about the world outside of YouTube. In that spirit of exploration, I asked Science Guy last month if I could accompany him to a local course to bang chain as we had in the good ole days.
We met at Victor Ashe Park1 on the last Thursday in April. It wasn’t his favorite of Knoxville’s nine courses, but it was halfway between our houses. Seeing as a round would take two hours, and we wanted to see our kids after work, it checked the box. While he was once good enough to hang with the local pros in New Mexico, where he lived underground doing research he’s not allowed to tell me about, Cody’s game has devolved in his Dad era. Once a woods specialist, he’s now a weekend warrior, albeit still plenty good enough to spank me. Because what’s the fun in doing anything if you can’t beat someone who makes fun of you?
He arrived carrying a specially made backpack containing two dozen discs. I was only permitted to throw the ones he’d found abandoned in the woods. Cody gave me a driver for long-distance throws, a mid-range, and a putter. At the end of this column, I share his tips for getting into the game, including more descriptions of the discs, approach, and attitude for having fun.
We eschewed warm-ups and got straight to business on Hole #2, skipping the first, which requires throwing across a scummy pond. Few clouds hovered in the sky above us, and the air was sticky with humidity, ensuring we’d work up a sweat.
As we strolled the course, I wondered out loud about the qualities that make someone good at disc golf. Through the early 2000s, most players were either stoners or homeless, recruited from backgrounds like ping-pong and Rubik’s cube racing. But then guys like Will Schuesterick, a Knoxvillian who won the U.S. Disc Golf Championships in 2010, 2012, and 2014, showed up, demonstrating how far a little athleticism could take you2. The modern era has its very own Michael Jordan, a California slinger by the name of Paul McBeth whose name you’ll see on the swag donned by aficionados. “Now the LeBrons and KDs have shown up,” Cody said, as he recounted the history for me. As he spoke, I observed the players in front of us, none of whom gave the appearance of owning dumbbells, and doubted.
Looks can be deceiving, as I soon learned. Because even with its low barrier to entry, disc golf still requires that you be able to throw a frisbee semi-accurately, as far as possible, and then more accurately toward a goal for points. Like with a tennis racquet, hand placement is key. If the lip dips down, the disc will slam into the dirt. If it’s up, the disc will hang before descending like a UFO to Earth. Only once or twice did I manage a drive that traveled more than 30 feet. The Dungeons & Dragons crews were regularly quadrupling my distance.
My former roommate explained that this is because enthusiasts understand the balance between technique and strength. He demonstrated this on Hole #12, sending a disc 350 feet across the horizon and landing it within a minivan’s length of the goal. My next throw went left when I intended it to go right and smacked into a tree not two Honda Odysseys from the cement throwing pad. “Mulligan!” I shouted before slamming the next disc into the tree beside it.
Disc golf attracts people like Cody, who are patient with a sense of humor. Whereas a disheveled ball golf course is still sophisticated enough to attract people who play in skirts and slacks, Victor Ashe has two or three dozen fire ant holes to avoid each time you stoop down to find your disc in the weeds. The situation is worse in the woods, where you rub against poison ivy plants and are at risk of contracting Lyme disease. I comprehended after a few holes that it wasn’t that being a hippie or homeless made you a good disc golf player, but rather that being good required you to become comfortable with looking like you hadn’t showered in days.
Before he became enamored with “frolf,” as he calls it, Cody played baseball. At Woodbine, we played catch in the backyard, and he’d throw as hard as he could until I’d make Haley sub in, since she shares the mental illness that makes you want to break the hand of the person you’re having fun with. Throwing a frisbee is an altogether different ability: the style Olympic, somewhere between the discus approach and a backhand slap, or the flick of a fishing rod in the forehand. It also demands meticulosity, which is where the science comes in.
By the middle holes, mindful of how well or poorly he was doing compared to previous rounds, my friend let other frolfers pass in front so that he could spend extra time calculating the precise angle and trajectory of his next throw. I, on the other hand, settled for throwing wildly. “That’ll play,” Cody would say, even when the disc landed closer to holes other than the one I was aiming for3.
As the sunlight faded, I was more than 20 shots above par, yet still enjoying myself. Other than when I play soccer or hike-fish in the Smokies, I seldom participate in activities that involve movement as a byproduct. But this—this might’ve even counted as a workout! No wonder disc golf surged in popularity during the pandemic, attracting anyone who doesn’t mind getting bitten by mosquitos or dirtying their sneakers.
Coming up on the final hole, I felt like I’d progressed. That’s the deceiving thing about disc golf, per my friend: “The next level never seems that far away. The pursuit of mastery keeps you coming back.”
We contemplated the round’s culmination in the cross-pond throw at Hole #1. Cody suggested we skip it, seeing as he didn’t want me to land any of his discs in the noxious pond water, where the plastic would either melt or become lily pads for mutant turtles. I assured him I would make it, and I did…barely.
Over three miles, I’m proud to say that not a single disc was lost to the forest. I finished a respectable 25 above par. Cody finished a competitive seven below. Before going home, we threw every disc he had as far as we could in the empty field beside the parking lot. It was fun, and I can’t wait to do it again, maybe next time with my own discs to destroy.
The ScienceGuy84 Guide to Getting Good at Disc Golf
#1 Get out and play (cheaply)
The principal reason that disc golf is superior to minor sports, like ball golf, is that it’s cheap and relatively easy to play. Don’t break the bank when you’re getting started. Search the woods at local courses for free discs, buy cheap discs off Amazon, or borrow them from a friend and give it a shot.
If you’d like a starter set for under $30, you can purchase the Innova DX Starter Set. However, be warned: the discs are made of baseline plastic that will get jacked up when you hit a tree (you will hit lots of trees). For a few extra bucks, you can get the Infinite Discs Starter Set, made from medium-grade plastic.
#2 Phone a friend
It’s helpful to play with someone who knows the game, if for no other reason than to bum frisbees. If you don’t know a scientist, look for someone who spends a lot of time in hammocks or parks. If they’re not homeless, there’s a good chance they frolf! No luck? Track down a local disc shop. If you’re in Knoxville, you can go to Pluto Sports. Shops may be more expensive to buy from, but there is an overwhelming amount of information out there; a little guidance on discs and local courses goes a long way.
#3 Stick to mids and putters
Discs are generally broken down into four categories, listed by ascending speed (i.e., how far they can go). They are putters, mid-ranges, fairway drivers, and distance drivers. Speed is, in part, determined by how fast they’re supposed to be thrown. As a newb, you probably won’t throw drivers well. Take your medicine, swallow your pride, and stick to the slower stuff until you’ve built up some experience.
#4 Try a driver if you really want to
Throwing far is fun. So go ahead and pick up that driver. Grab one with Paul McBeth’s or Calvin Heimburg’s signatures so you can feel really cool. You won’t be able to throw it very far at first, but it’s nice to dream.
#5 Remember it’s an outdoor sport
This is not a sport for house cats. You’re going to need bug spray, sunscreen, and a cold beverage. And despite what ball golfers will have you think, it is a real sport, so you’ll need to stretch, warm up, and bring a cold beverage—whatever your neck, back, or knees of the woods call for. Make sure to bring a cold beverage, while you’re at it.
#6 Now find someone else
Now that you’re an aspiring pro, ditch that first dude you bummed discs from and find somebody who sucks just as much as you do. It’s no fun playing against people better than you. Find a rival and defeat them. There’s no better fuel than nuclear energy, but the confidence gained from a sweet victory comes close. Of course, this is all self-deceit until you learn to throw a driver.
#7 Spice it up
There’s so much you can do with a frisbee. So don’t get stuck doing the same thing over and over again. Go play the one course you think you know and get funky. If you normally throw backhand, go forehand. Normally throw right at the target? Curve it around a tree instead. I saw a guy throw a weird upside-down overhand shot 600 feet once. CHUCK THAT THING LIKE YOU’RE TOM FREAKING BRADY. Don’t come crying to me when you tear something. This is the point at which the addiction has started to set in as you pursue the elusive ‘perfect shot shape.’ You’ve been warned!
#8 Say frisbee as many times as possible
Technically, what you throw is called a disc. For some reason, seasoned disc golfers—usually the bad ones—get bent out of shape if you call them frisbees. For that reason, I think it’s very important that you say frisbees as often and as loudly as possible. This sport is supposed to be fun and carefree (unless, of course, you’re losing), so go infuriate all those uptight frolfers!
#9 Embrace that you suck
Have I mentioned that you’re going to be bad at this? You are. That’s why the cold beverages are so important. Even though you’ll be terrible, don’t worry about it too much. Enjoy the beauty of an unathletic hippie dude absolutely ripping a frisbee 500 feet, because you have a ways to go. Keep playing, learning, and becoming a little less trash every time you hit the course. With disc golf, the next step in your game never seems that far off; that’s a big part of what keeps us coming back for more.
#10 Stop reading this and go play!
Why are you still here? You should be frolfing…now! Go!
Read previous The Weekly Big Head columns:
April 29 – Naked Old Dudes at the YMCA
April 22 – What Color is the Grass in Alaska?
April 15 – Restlessness on Weekends
April 8 – Adventures with the Apocalyptic Cowboy
April 1 – Free Barabbas
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In the ScienceGuy84 Unofficial Rankings, the Mounds at Oak Ridge owns the top spot. The former mayor’s course lands second or third beside Tommy Schumpert but ahead of Admiral Farragut (“the course for casuals”), Plumb Creek (“the course for people who have to push their kid in a stroller while playing”), The Claytons, and Pellissippi. In total, there are more than a dozen courses within an hour’s drive of downtown Knoxville.
Once upon a time, I even wrote a story about two of the champs from this new era of stars—Nate Doss and Valarie Jenkins, a married couple who’ve won three and four world championships, respectively.
This is the same kindness extended by the Fish Whisperer or the Apocalyptic Cowboy whenever I tie an especially hideous trout fly and they say, “Oh yeah, that’ll fish.”
Let me know any time you want to play a round.