“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades”
Across and down the street a little ways from our front door the city, a couple of years ago, took a little-used piece of land and built a whole bunch of horseshoe pits there – giving each one a number. The land is still little-used, but once or twice a year a tournament arrives and horseshoe pitchers crowd in and do their thing. Usually portable lighting trailers are brought in and they pitch well into the darkness.
The rest of the year it sits their unused, fenced off, locked up, empty and forlorn. The little sign proclaims “PIT #11” – if anyone other than me ever looks.