Just call me Ace

Sometimes great ideas spring from a title. Something like a guy thinking, “You know, ‘War and Peace’ would be a great title for a book. Maybe I should write that.”

That happened on a much grander scale in the early 1990’s. A man named Dunning (he went by several pseudonyms, including Alan Bennett), decided Kinky Jalepenos would be a great name for a softball team. A few months later, a wonderfully sub-par softball team was born. Each of the players (most of them fantastically bad in their own right) was too embarrassed to put his own name on the back of his jersey. They all fashioned nicknames. Dunning’s jersey read “Some people call me the space cowboy.” Mine simply read, “Ace.”

I’d always wanted a really good nickname and I thought Ace was perfect.

For several years, this team stunk up southwest Missouri softball fields. Errors were more common than base hits. The second basemen had sexual relations with the right center fielder’s girlfriend (although, in the second basemen’s defense, the girlfriend was his first…things just didn’t die down as early as they should…and the right center fielder was a real prick anyway). Ace never hit a homerun. Some People Call Me the Space Cowboy was an all star…who would eventually break Ace’s nose with a rocket-armed throw during a dimly-lit game of catch.

Soon after the demise of the Kinky Jalepenos, I put the nickname Ace to bed. People on the outside never really understood and it usually took too long to explain. I took on other names as the years went on…OG, Otis, etc. I had almost forgotten the pseudonym of old.

Until last night.

I was on hole #13 of the Timmons Park frolf course. The sun was setting. I was sweating. We were playing quickly, trying to fit in a whole 18 holes before dark. I let my disc fly and it had no choice but to fly from the tee pad into the basket. That’s a hole in one…or as we in the frolf world call it…an ACE.

It was my first ever. CJ has four. Gordon has one. Timmy has one (although, parathetically, we should mention that it was witnessed only by a myterious and elusive Guy on Bike).

Now, here’s the thing…nobody with the exception of the WFA (WYFF Frolf Association) will know–or for that matter care–about my frolf skills (or lack thereof). It’s a lot like the Kinky Jalepenos…you couldn’t appreciate it unless you were there.

And maybe that’s what makes it special.