In the summer of 1997 I lived in Kalamazoo, Michigan, though I certainly spent enough time at Coldbrook disc golf course to consider it as my home away from home. One day, having played 3 consecutive rounds alone, I sat in the grass besides the tee pad for hole #1 and rested, searching for the energy to continue into a forth and final round. As I waited and watched a couple of groups go out before me, two teenagers stepped up to throw.
Now, if you've never played Coldbrook before, generally speaking there are really only two ways to play the first hole: a huge, high hyzer out to the right needing to carry the forest, or a shot up the middle to either side of an imposing tree.
These two guys looked like they were newer players, carrying only a couple of discs in hand. I watched the first guy throw, wanting to send his shot up the middle but fading out to the left soon after release and finishing in the woods; an all-to-common experience for a beginner trying to learn the game with an X-clone or Banshee. The second thrower then stepped up and looked like he might put something more on his shot. He paced about the tee pad as if he was trying to make himself mad because he really wanted to crush his throw. Alas, his shot was thrown too high and directly into the tall pine tree centered in the fairway.
I watched his driver crash down to the ground as he cursed aloud in dissatisfaction of the outcome. Then, moments later, as if in harmonic rebuttal to his bad karmic expression, a giant push broom unexpectedly fell from the tree. Go figure.