In the hot Houston summer of 2004 my friend introduced me to a sport called disc golf. I hated on it before I even knew what it was because I had heard total goobers, wearing aviator sunglasses, talk about FROLF within ten or fewer words of The Dave Matthews Band. But I gave it a try. He took me to MacGregor Park, a park in Houston’s Third Ward. I couldn’t understand why the city placed equipment for such a bourgeoisie sport in the “Trey,” home to Scarface (of the Geto Boys), Big Moe, the Screwed Up Click, Fat Tony, and surprisingly, Phylicia Rashad. Watching the locals watch the disc golfers tee off or place cappuccino bets on whoever finished furthest under par was odd, even though the overall mood was always buoyant. While playing, I experienced this conversation:
Guy Chillin at MacGregor: Hey what dat is?
Me: A disc, you throw it in that basket over there.
Guy Chillin at MacGregor: Oh for real? Do it then.
Me: Ok (I threw it)
Guy Chillin at MacGregor: OH! That was close, how much one of dem cost?
Me: Like 7 bucks.
Guy Chillin at MacGregor: Damn that’s it? That’s cheap, I’ma go buy me like 12 of them then.
I can only describe those types of experiences at MacGregor as winsome misunderstandings. Among other things, what separated my friend and I from the goobers I described earlier was that we’d get distracted from disc golf by all the ad hoc S.L.A.B. and low rider shows that popped off at Macgregor. Of course with the cars came the music. The sound systems those cars had, banged so loud that while throwing discs, the soundtrack for the park was almost always Fat Pat, which was fine with me.
Via older music videos, I started noticing that MacGregor is home to a multitude of legendary happenings. Although it’s hard to describe 104 degree temperatures and 100 percent humidity, I thought I’d share some Macgregor moments with yall. I can’t wait until summer.–Droopy
 Aside from the used magnum condoms, dope baggies, and blunt guts everywhere, MacGregor Park has a beautiful green.