As I strutted back to the car, iced coffee in hand, I noticed them.
Three sets of Cornhole boards, all neatly arranged on the patio of the bar next to the coffee shop.
They sat vacant for the moment. It was far too early in the day for the bar to be open.
But I knew that as morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening, this little piece of territory would be hotly contested.
Scores of friends and acquaintances would converge on the area. They would split into teams and stand by the rows of Cornhole boards. Then they’d try to toss beanbags — underhand — through the holes near the top of the board directly across from them.
There are a few ground rules for the game, and there’s a point system to keep score. But the premise of the game remains simple — toss beanbags through a hole on a board.
I’ve played Cornhole a few times before. And I’ve generally found it pointless.
There’s simply not much intriguing about soft tossing a beanbag over and over. The talent required is minimal, and the skill has little functional purpose.
To me, Cornhole is akin to throwing balled-up tinfoil into the trash can. I want to hit the target on the first try, of course.
But I won’t go nuts if I achieve that objective. And I won’t be devastated if I don’t.
(To be clear, I am not a litterer; after a missed trash toss, I do dispose of the item properly.)
I’m sure I’m not the only one to feel this way.
And yet, Cornhole is everywhere these days. Many bars dedicate part of their establishments to the game, and many people have their own Cornhole sets. Those tired of playing sure do seem to keep their mouths shut.
So why the discrepancy? Why has Cornhole become ever more prevalent, even if it does so little to inspire?
The answer is unlikely to satisfy.
When I was young, my family used to make 90-minute treks to visit a great aunt and great uncle.
I thoroughly enjoyed these trips.
My great aunt and great uncle had a swimming pool in their backyard — a luxury we didn’t have in ours. And in the basement, they had a fancy pool table — the kind with a ball return system connected to all the pockets.
I was fascinated by this table. Paying no attention to the row of billiards cues on the wall, I’d roll the pool balls into the pockets with my hands. I’d watch them slide down the metal guideway to a storage bin. Then, I’d do it again and again.
Fast forward to high school, and I was heading to pool halls regularly with friends. I was playing properly this time — racking the table, using billiards cues, and knowing the actual rules. Still, I wasn’t all that good at the game, and I didn’t find it that enjoyable.
By the time I graduated to frequenting bars, pool tables were an unwelcome sight. And yet, they were everywhere I looked — along with Shuffleboard and Darts. (The Cornhole craze hadn’t taken off yet.)
I found myself roped into game after game. I found no joy in the process, even after numbing myself with alcohol.
When I had the nerve to ask why we were all passing the time this way — drinking like fish, playing ubiquitous bar games — I always encountered the same answer.
It’s the thing to do.
I was incredulous. I still am.
Our recreation time is best spent doing things we enjoy. And yet, we seem to gravitate toward someone else’s idea of fun while out on the town. All without knowing who that someone else was.
Eventually, I addressed this issue by dropping out of the bar scene. Giving up alcohol aided in that endeavor.
But friends still invite me to play pool or Cornhole these days at parties and gatherings. And I find myself with a tough choice.
Do I acquiesce and attempt to bury my disdain? These games are the thing to do after all.
Or do I stand my ground — forcing myself to answer for being so disagreeable?
The scales are tipping.
Baseball has long been a game of numbers.
Henry Chadwick invented the box score roughly 160 years ago. And we’ve obsessed about baseball statistics seemingly ever since.
I am no exception. I struggled with arithmetic when I was growing up. But I could tell you who was leading the league in batting.
So, when I heard about fantasy baseball, I was all in.
The premise seemed perfect. Draft a virtual team comprised of real Major League Baseball players. Their collective performance in real games would determine how your virtual team did.
I was decent at this endeavor at first. And I enjoyed it so much that I branched out into fantasy football as well.
But a few developments changed the calculus.
One of them, strangely, happened in the pages of a book.
Michael Lewis’ Moneyball was published in 2003. The book outlined how one team — the Oakland Athletics — found success in the early 2000s despite a small budget.
The Athletics valued different statistics than the baseball establishment did. And this unconventional thinking helped them find hidden gems that proved integral in the team’s success.
In the wake of Moneyball, the baseball universe took these revelations to the next level. Teams started using advanced analytics to assess players, position them in the field, and shift their approach while batting.
Fantasy baseball too became more complicated, as a flurry of new statistical markers entered the fold. It was difficult to keep up with.
But more than that, the premise of the endeavor had changed. Fantasy baseball was no longer a hypothetical exercise for nerdy fans. It was ever more an extension of what Major League Baseball teams themselves were doing. The two worlds were converging.
That alone was nearly enough to drive me from fantasy sports. But there was another development that set me over the edge.
As fantasy sports gained popularity, fandom changed. No longer was it sufficient to root for one’s favorite teams. No, fans demanded that all contests up and down the league play out in a particular way — just so that they could win their fantasy matchup.
A statistical anomaly or a quick hook from a coach — each immaterial to a team’s outcome — might be enough to make a fan hopping mad if it cost them their fantasy matchup. These selfish pursuits seem so pithy, but they’re all too real.
I grew tired of both these developments rather quickly, and I dropped out of fantasy sports some years ago. Friends and acquaintances struggled to process my decision.
Fantasy sports were the thing to do, after all. Wouldn’t I miss it?
The answer has been an unequivocal no.
Sure, I’ve deprived myself a key source of connection. And yes, it can be exhausting rebuffing requests to review someone’s fantasy team or provide draft advice. (I do neither these days.)
But I feel happier without the albatross of fantasy sports around my neck.
Others might take on tasks they don’t fully enjoy because it’s the thing to do. But I refuse to make that sacrifice any longer.
Our society is multifaceted.
From coast to coast, there are hundreds of millions of people who harbor different interests. And there are plenty of opportunities to engage with these interests.
As Americans, we can head to a concert, or a sports event, or a theme park if we so desire. We can go hike in a national park, hit the lake, or just sit out on the porch in the fresh air.
The choice is ours, free of compulsion or prejudice. And that is a great thing.
But we need to rethink the social baseline. We need to reevaluate what the thing to do means.
If we overhype an activity that only some enjoy, we water down our collective potential. We cause many people to go along to get along in our complex social labyrinth. And we prioritize groupthink over true zeal and engagement.
This has been our fate for far too long. But it needn’t be our future.
So, let’s stop using the thing to do as an excuse for group social activities. Let’s think critically and make room for people to walk different paths. And let’s not judge one another for abstaining from the popular choice.
It’s the best path forward.