The Disc That Gave My Shot an Obligation

The shot I remember over coffee is one I didn’t take.

There was a clear route to the centre hole. My finger was lined up. Then someone pointed to an opposing disc off to the side, and my lovely straightforward plan acquired an obligation.

That disc had to be dealt with.

I’d stopped at the community centre to ask about the pegs on a round wooden board. Three practice shots seemed a reasonable amount of involvement. By the time I left, I had opinions about where another person ought to leave their wooden discs.

Crokinole. Hobby #241. Apparently I can become territorial about a tabletop before learning to shoot across it reliably.

Under the World Crokinole Championship rules, if an opponent has a disc in play, one of yours must contact an opposing disc during the shot. You can do it directly or through a combination involving your own pieces. Miss that contact and your shooter comes off, along with the friendly discs you struck—even a twenty you happened to sink.

This changes what I see when I look at the board. A disc sitting in an awkward place creates work for the next player. It can be useful simply by requiring attention.

During my first game, I mostly assessed my shots by where my own disc stopped. Only later did I begin looking at the board from the other chair.

Only mentally. The chairs have rules too.

Part of your backside must remain on your chair while shooting. This is formally called the “one cheek rule.” I appreciate a game whose governing documents have anticipated my attempt to improve an angle by gradually becoming a standing person.

A couple of days ago, one stone managed seven skips, and I couldn’t tell how much credit belonged to the throw. The nearest comparison stones were already underwater. Here, someone gathered the discs and slid them back. I could try again with the same piece.

That small convenience may be dangerous.

Repeated attempts make it harder to maintain a generous interpretation of your technique. The disc has remained available for questioning. So has the board. Eventually suspicion reaches the finger.

Yet I liked the pace of it. There was time between turns to talk, then a short pause while someone settled their hand. Everyone watched the little journey. A good shot briefly interrupted the conversation; a dreadful one sometimes improved it.

Later I found a 1902 patent for a sheet-metal game board with a crokinole surface and sand packed between the metal boards to deaden sound. Someone had already worked through the engineering consequences of making this domestic activity considerably louder.

I understand the impulse to improve the apparatus. For once, I’m more interested in another seat at the table.

My coffee has gone cold while I’ve been trying to remember where that inconvenient disc was sitting. I can picture my intended route perfectly. The disc itself keeps moving.