Cornhole and Retirement

Over my 40+ years of working, I often dreamed of what retirement would be like. There would be sandy beaches to travel to, new places to explore. Home life would include languishing in my gardens by day, drinking cocktails on our back deck by night. A life of relaxation and bliss - my well-earned reward after years of working in corporate America.

Instead, we’re playing cornhole. In leagues. At bars. Year-round. One or two nights a week. Plus the occasional game in a backyard, or in a pole barn when the weather doesn’t allow the outside games. I definitely didn’t see this being part of my retirement dreams.

If you’re not familiar with the sport of cornhole, the object is to throw four one-pound beanbags (or corn-filled bags) into a six-inch-diameter hole positioned nine inches from the top of a two-foot by four-foot raised board, twenty-seven feet away. Sounds easy enough, right? I mean I throw wadded up pieces of clothing from one end of my laundry room to a wicker hamper on the other end all the time. How hard could it be?

My husband got the cornhole bug first. He picked up on it quickly and was making cornholes (getting the bag in the little circular opening) almost immediately. I, on the other hand, couldn’t even hit the board. My bags would land in the grass (or mud or concrete) far away from the board. It was like there was a magnetic field surrounding the board, not allowing my bags go near it. 

So I started studying my husband as he threw his bags. The way his hand grasped the bag, his perfect follow-through, his confident stride. He even took time to show me how he throws the bag like a frisbee and presto, it lands in the hole. I tried copying him. My bags landed even further away from their target. 

I got frustrated. I hated the game. Where were my sandy beaches and fancy cocktails anyway? I didn’t like playing this stupid game. But he insisted. “You’ll get it. You just need to practice more.”

So I did. I practiced and got worse. Maybe I was overthinking it. I mean, overthinking is one of my toxic traits. But I like a challenge and I don’t shy away from doing hard things. So I kept at it. I tried new strategies. They didn’t seem to help. So I got creative. Maybe drinking alcohol would help. It didn’t. Although it did make me care a hell of a lot less. So we signed up for leagues and started playing anyway. Eventually I started to at least hit the board sometimes. Which is nice since the bags stay a lot cleaner that way. Plus, you score a point if you hit the board. Three points if you actually get a bag in the hole.

Eventually we purchased our own board and bags. And we practiced. A lot. My husband wasn’t beating me twenty-one to zero every time we played a game. If I scored a single point, I celebrated. Twenty-one to one felt better - at least I was on the scoreboard!

Now, a couple of years into retirement, we’re still playing cornhole. It’s become a family affair too - our kids, nephews, and nieces all play. Birthday parties and other celebrations often include a few games of shooting cornhole. Even my dad has joined in on the fun a couple of times. And playing in the leagues gets us out of the house. It forces me to be social, even on days I’d prefer being tucked away at home reading a book. We’ve become a pretty good team, even though it’s my husband who usually carries us. We’ve made new friends and have had a lot of laughs. It keeps us active and engaged. 

It’s a far cry from sandy beaches and world travel, but it works for us. I still can hardly ever beat my husband in a one-on-one game, but at least it’s happened a handful of times. He probably had something in his eye or was sick with the flu on those days, but I’ll take victory when I can. 

My advice, even though nobody asked, is sometimes it’s okay to let go of your dreams and try something new. You might find a new, unplanned way forward. And if you’re like me…you might find those clothes you pitch underhand at the hamper, actually going in.



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