Dedicated readers of my column, who I have no reason to believe exist, will know that this isn't’ the first time I’ve talked about disc golf. It’s been a hobby of mine for almost 5 years now. While my skills will, probably, always pale in comparison to those with actual talent I’ve been really happy to see my progress starting to move forward especially after the minor setback of two broken legs.

I wasn’t exactly good before the car accident, but I definitely got worse after it. I mean throwing a Frisbee from a wheelchair is hard enough, but chucking an aerodynamic disc two hundred feet in one throw while your tires are stuck in the sand was impossible.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration I can’t even throw a full two hundred feet now that I’m back on mine.

Either way, even when I got back to walking I could tell that I was falling far behind my previous self. With Doug’s help I’ve been changing that, albeit slowly. We try to go about once a week. I give him a reason to play slower and take his time, and he gives me a reason to not let myself fall stagnant and stay on the couch instead of playing a sport I actually like.

I won’t pretend that I just breeze through an hour-long hike while throwing discs around as if it’s nothing. Though for once I can see that day in the future.

Okay, maybe not that day exactly but one where I can do it as well as my incredibly out of shape self before last year happened. However, with Doug’s support I’ve taken quite a few steps forward.

It started small. Slater Memorial Park in Pawtucket has a nine-hole course with relatively flat terrain. We began with doing a loop of the first few holes – taking a break after each one – together before letting me drop lifelessly into the front seat of the car knowing I’d barely be able to stand for the next 24 hours.

Now, I can make it through the entire course. I still take breaks to rest and stretch my legs. I can’t go forever, and I still end up barely able to move for a day after that. It’s been a huge leap forward though. One that lead us to go visit a course I hadn’t been to since before the accident.

In North Attleboro is the World War I Memorial Park, which just happens to be the home of another nine-hole course. Packing up some snacks and drinks to keep us sated we grabbed a friend who enjoys the game too and headed out. Things were great at first.

While I remembered the walk here being far more intimidating than Slater, I had not remembered just how tough it was. This was a hike, not a walk.

The first three holes were smooth. A little bit of an incline was present, but I brushed off the offered help up and down the hills as I slowly made my way. Then hole four showed up, or I showed up at it.

The basket was straight up a miniature mountain. About 260 feet forward and at least 60 feet up, the small edge of the white flag that marked out goal could be seen. Doug looked at me. Worry showed in his eyes. I smiled back. I had this.

My throw was just fine. That wasn’t the part that I had to prepare for. A step at a time I planted my feet as I climbed. Weight on the balls of my feet, I made sure not to put my weight down until I knew the dirt wouldn’t slip or a rock wouldn’t give way. I could feel eyes on me as I kept moving forward with my mission.