One of the great things about a family vacation is the things you learn. Maybe a sibling tells you a secret. Maybe you discover a new place to eat. Or maybe you discover the greatest game in the history of the world.
I started to play cornhole down the beach.
I know I have made proclamations in the past about my devotion to a new activity, but I mean it this time. Cornhole has changed my life.
For the uninitiated, cornhole is similar to horseshoes except you use wooden boxes called cornhole platforms and bean bags filled with corn instead of metal stakes and horseshoes.
Like horseshoes, you play with a partner, tossing from opposite ends of the court. A bag on the board scores one point while getting one of your bags through the hole nets you three points. Games go to 21.
But the best part about cornhole is that you can play anywhere and anyone can learn the game. Even me.
When we returned home from the beach, I jumped on the computer to try and find other cornhole enthusiasts. I knew the game had roots in Ohio because I had heard friends from there mention it before.
The American Cornhole Association (ACA) is based in Cincinnati and has around 1,500 members across the country. Make that 1,501 since I submitted my membership.
I hope that sparks a growth in the game across Pennsylvania. I don’t want to see Ohio control the game.
My niece’s husband John, who is more like a Shea than any other member of my family, introduced us to the game on vacation. This baffles me because he’s from Maryland and lives in North Carolina. But I don’t argue about these things.
I wonder how he knew we would enjoy a game that required no athletic ability, allowed players to remain stationary for almost the entire time and gave us the opportunity to drink a beer while playing.
They should just call the game Shea.
I only got a chance to play a couple nights, but the rental house where John stayed had nightly cornhole games. At first, they used the neighbors drive way since no one was staying there for much of the week. When cars appeared there, they moved to the street.
They even played the game on the beach, convincing the lifeguards that cornhole was exempt from the “No tossing objects” rule on the beach. Cornhole has a power over all, I tell you.
People would stop and watch us play. I kept looking for a news van to show up and record our march toward cornhole history, but they must have had trouble understanding the directions.
I don’t know how that happened unless there was some other street hosting a cornhole game with spectators sitting in beach chairs or standing on the deck, hurling commentary at family members.
We finished the week at the beach with a family cornhole tournament, something I hope becomes a new tradition. I want to get the event sanctioned by the ACA so the Shea family can begin to dominate the national rankings.
Everybody has to have a dream.