Welcome to the most bureaucratic corner of the Holi-Daze multiverse: a Festivus-themed disc golf league where your complaints are the entry ticket and the creek is the witness.
The Premise
Somewhere between a Seinfeld episode and a town hall meeting that got out of hand, there's a disc golf league where the airing of grievances isn't just encouraged — it's the entire point. Every Monday at Creekside Park, players gather at the old oak pavilion to file formal complaints about the root on hole 6, the wind off the creek, and that one guy who always forgets to yell 'fore.' The Grievance Committee hears each case and assigns a remedy. The remedies are disc golf throws. It's therapy, but with more plastic.
This is one of three genre-worlds in the Holi-Daze multiverse, which means the holiday multiverse has fractured and dumped Festivus into a sitcom with a scorecard. The tinsel is banned. The pole stands unadorned. The complaints are pinned to the corkboard like evidence. And somehow, we're all here for it.
The Venue
Creekside Park isn't just any park — it's one of the oldest disc golf courses in existence, established in 1982 and designed by Ed 'Steady Ed' Headrick, the father of the sport. It was later dedicated to Walter Fred Morrison, the actual inventor of the Frisbee, because this course has a pedigree longer than most of our attention spans.
- 18 holes of classic park-style disc golf with multiple pin positions on nearly every hole
- Big Cottonwood Creek comes into play on at least four holes — a beautiful hazard that has swallowed more discs than the Grievance Committee cares to document
- The old oak pavilion serves as headquarters, with the corkboard of pinned complaints as its unofficial coat of arms
- MVP Black Hole Portal baskets, because even the targets are modern while the course stays classic
The course has hosted tournaments for over twenty-five years. Now it hosts people throwing thumbers off the tee as a 'grievance remedy.' Steady Ed would either be thrilled or deeply confused. I choose to believe both.
The Factions
The league is split into two warring factions — because you can't have a proper grievance culture without an us-versus-them dynamic.
The Creek Renegades
A ragtag band of park spirits and disgruntled throwers who reject the Tribunal's formal remedies. They channel the wild wind, the thorn-tangled baskets, and the untamed roots of Grievance Grove. Chaos agents with splash panels.
The Grievance Tribunal
The ruling body that enforces formal complaints and issues official remedies. They bang the gavel, pin the paperwork, and document every splash hazard with dramatic, bold-lined authority. Bureaucracy with a backhand.
One side wants to burn the complaint ledger. The other side wants it notarized. Both sides throw plastic at metal. The multiverse is weird like that.
The Cost of Grievances
Airing your grievances is free. Doing it competitively costs $5.50 per week, which feels like a bargain for structured emotional release. Here's how the tribute breaks down:
- $5.50 weekly buy-in — the cost of admission to the grievance economy
- $5.00 optional prize money buy-in — for those who want their complaints to have financial consequences
- $5.00 optional ace pot — for the one perfect throw that silences every critic
- $2.00 super ace — for hitting the basket in a way that makes the creek itself take notice
That's up to $17.50 per week for the full experience. Cheaper than therapy, and you get a bag tag out of it.
The Ace Pot
Ace Pot Min Guaranteed by ElevateUT Disc Golf
The ace pot currently sits at $50, and here's the thing: that's the minimum guarantee provided by ElevateUT Disc Golf, the league platform. The displayed pot can look 'stuck' at $50 until player contributions push it above the guarantee — at which point it starts climbing. If you hit an ace and the pot hasn't grown past the guarantee, ElevateUT tops it up to $50, and that amount is credited to your Bonus Account (registration-only, not withdrawable to PayPal or disc shops). So yes, the pot is real, the guarantee is real, and your ace could be worth more than the weekly buy-in suggests.
The Rituals
This week is Episode 1: Opening Statements. And I cannot stress this enough — the Airing of Grievances is a structured ritual with rules. You don't just complain into the void; you sign the mock complaint ledger and pin your grievance to the corkboard. The Groundskeeper delivers a dramatic welcome speech. The Grievance Committee explains that every complaint earns a 'remedy' challenge.
The twist: each player must attempt one 'grievance throw' — a blind putt, a thumber off the tee, some form of disc golf self-sabotage that serves as group therapy. The complaints range from 'the root on hole 6' to 'the wind steals my putts.' All are valid. All are documented. All will be burned at the season finale.
And the Groundskeeper dropped a hint: the creek has a 'memory,' and some complaints are older than the course itself. That's either beautiful lore or a threat. I'm choosing to be intrigued.
The Season Arc
Ten weeks. All at Creekside Park. Every Monday from November 16 through January 18, with flex start times from 7:00 AM to 5:20 PM — because some people want to air their grievances at dawn like a duel, and others need to sleep in before filing their complaints.
- Week 1: Opening Statements — the ledger, the corkboard, the grievance throws
- Weeks 2-4: Creek mysteries, complaint bingo, and grove restoration
- Weeks 5-8: Storm fallout, hidden history, disc hunts, and the Creekside Curse
- Weeks 9-10: Town Hall and the Grievance Gala, where every complaint gets ceremonially retired
The arc is beautiful, honestly: it starts with petty complaints about course quirks and ends with a community burning their grievances in a bonfire and renaming the grove 'Resolution Grove.' That's character development, people.
The Holi-Daze Multiverse
This league is one of three genre-worlds in the Holi-Daze series — a full fracture of the holiday multiverse where every winter tradition got dumped into the wrong story. Nakatomi Tower is being stormed at The Fort. The Wet Bandits are crawling through vents at Urban Forest. And here at Creekside, Festivus is running a town hall meeting with disc golf as the parliamentary procedure.
Your bag tag is a multiverse passport. 'Grievance Root,' 'Creek Complaint,' 'Pavilion Gavel' — every tag is a holiday element trapped in a genre role. Defending or stealing a tag is a narrative beat, not just a leaderboard shift. The tags are the hierarchy. The hierarchy is the drama. The drama is, at its core, just people throwing plastic at chains. But we commit to the bit.
The Supporting Cast
Shout-out to Another Round Salt Lake City for being a local retail partner and sponsor of this chaos. They keep the plastic flowing and the community stocked — a valuable ally in the grievance wars.
And a genuine round of applause for ElevateUT Disc Golf, the 501(c)(3) non-profit making all of this possible. They're in the business of growing the sport through better venues and better events — which means more courses, more leagues, and more places to air your grievances in the future. That's a mission worth supporting, even if it comes with a clipboard and a contract I never signed.
The creek has a memory, the corkboard has your complaints, and the season is just getting started. See you at the pavilion.