Two Short Stories About Throwing Things (Cornhole #4)

And Four Essential Elements of Success

Mar 03, 2025

Hello everyone, and a special welcome to new subscribers. Now we are 900+.
This the fourth episode in a series. To catch up: Parts One, Two, and Three.

While making tonight’s salad, I decided it would be fun to toss a cherry tomato high into the air and catch it in my mouth.

How difficult could it be? Over the years, I have thrown various edible substances into the air for mouth-catching. I’ve got a respectable success rate if you don’t count all the stray popcorn kernels I’ve had to retrieve from couch cushions.

I have not played the food-toss game in a long time, but now, as an aspiring cornhole champion, I’m gradually growing adept at tossing other objects: bean bags. (See below.) My reclaimed sense of myself as an athlete is spilling over into other arenas. Why not skillfully toss a mini tomato? The sky – or in this case, the ceiling – is the limit.

Just as I was about to toss the tomato, my spouse, Katherine, entered the kitchen. “Watch,” I said, eager to impress her. Assessing the weight of the little ball, I lifted it gently. I tossed.

The tomato soared upward – but far from my body and therefore far from my gaping mouth. Never one to give up easily, especially with spectators present, I desperately lunged with bent knees and head tilted backward: a limbo dancer attempting to clear a low bar, fast. This is not a move I’d recommend.

The red roly-poly plunged to the floor, bounced once, rolled under the refrigerator, and disappeared. Its vanishing act reminded me of a mouse that had once scampered under that same refrigerator – though in that case I had wisely not tried to catch it in my mouth.

Katherine has exacting household standards, including this rule: No food or mice under the fridge. I fetched the same broom I had once used to nudge the mouse, and now nudged the tomato. Lying face-down on the kitchen floor (with long legs in the hall), where all I could see was a litter of dust bunnies, I suddenly remembered: The mouse had skittered toward me so unexpectedly that as it pivoted toward its next hiding place (our couch), its tail grazed my lips.

By contrast, the obedient tomato rolled out slowly, apologetically. As it advanced toward my cheek, however, in a Post-Mouse Stress Disorder moment, I almost feared it.

At that point, I wondered what anyone would wonder: Does the five-second rule apply?

Let’s just say that in my eagerness to erase this folly from Katherine’s memory, I disposed of the evidence.

However, I was still flat on the floor. Slowly, with all the balletic grace of the Tin Man, I stood. Katherine, disappointed that I had not undertaken a thorough under-fridge cleaning “since you were already in position for it,” did not seem surprised – nor the least bit judgmental – regarding my embarrassing public athletic defeat. Apparently she has known me too long to expect perfection.

I’m telling you all this because my tomato toss illustrates essential steps toward success: You must be willing to try things, fail, and look foolish.

However, there’s one step I overlooked in my rush to show off to Katherine, and it’s important because it reduces the likelihood of humiliation: Practice.

Stronger Women Surges into First Place (Tied) in Standings

Which brings us to cornhole. This week, after practicing repeatedly with new techniques discovered mostly through trial and error, Lyn and I sprinted into tied-for-first in the standings (out of nine teams) with two more wins. We also won both games last week. This brings our record to five wins and one loss in league play. Lyn has taken her game to a new level, literally, by launching airmail shots with high arcs and such pinpoint precision that they drop through the hole shockingly, like cars being swallowed by sinkholes.

Katherine has become our team photographer and biggest (and only) fan. If my tomato-toss fiasco left her with a negative impression of my talents (and how could it not?), I hope to redeem myself with impressive cornhole play. More about my team’s training, our quest for mastery, and even a few secrets of our success so far (halfway through league play) in future episodes.

Don’t Tell Opponents We’ve Been Practicing

“But don’t tell our opponents we’ve been practicing,” Lyn requested when we met yesterday in her physical therapy clinic for our next training session. “I think most of them just joined the league to socialize. I don’t want to give them any ideas.”

I would never.