. . . The American advertises himself as a sneak, the kind of guy who might out scrounge James Garner were he imprisoned with Bronson, McQueen, Pleasance and the rest; the Aussie, a perfect put down artist, is too much of a mate to get voted off anyone’s island.
For disc golf in the Vondel park (Vondel . . . Vondel) a native, a civil servant, will join. It's a foursome. Over pre-round beers the civil servant explains that his job requires him to work to an exacting standard: passable such that 80 percent of the citizenry will not care, flawed enough so that 20 percent will complain.
Late night cold reduces traffic in the park and the other three joke about arraigning trysts (for free? for pay?) with one of the male bikers they claim circle the course in search of this sort of trysting, even if the few (but steady) bikers seem little different than the normal, usual, irregular metronomy.
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The round begins with a long straight par four that runs past a few statues and through a V of trees. On the front nine some tee boxes must be altered because of construction in the park (a subway going under the city will connect areas outside a highway ring to the Central Station) and the extent of this work is a surprise to the Aussie, who plays less often than the other two.
Through a huge root, popped up in arch shape when its tree falls over provides the finish for one hole, between triangulating benches (paths they face all declared water, a disc equivalent of the seventeenth hole at TPC) another. With plenty of real water to shoot over (or into) you need not worry too much if you can’t coax back your floater. Extra discs are stashed amid the tryst-filled bushes. The civil servant knows where. And at the third hole his flask is offered up for this first of the breaks, scheduled regularly, for inebriants. There are no complaints.