CORNHOLE
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 CORNHOLE Distance + BASKETBALL
Cornhole Basketball
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How To Play Cornhole
It's the new version...
Cornhole Basketball ™
(a definition)...


🌽🕳🏀 Cornhole Basketball ™ "Game of the Year 2026" utilizes OVERHAND shooting of cornhole bags versus the underhand tossing used in traditional cornhole and it LITERALLY merges two popular sports: worldwide-played basketball with trendy, rapidly spreading worldwide cornhole. Tournaments and Leagues are coming soon across the U.S. and around the world... and how far are cornhole boards apart? 27 Feet. Period. No variation.

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it's That SIMPLE
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Cornhole Basketball ™
How Far Apart
Are Cornhole Boards
Each cornhole board matchups should be EXACLTY 27 feet apart, bottoms (non-hole side) facing each other EXACTLY.

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Tournaments
Rodeheaver Boys Ranch Tournament
Rodeheaver Boys Ranch
Cornhole Basketball™️ Tournament
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Yes!!! The World's 1st Cornhole Basketball ™ Tournament
was hosted at and benefitted Rodeheaver Boys Ranch
on May 13th, 2023



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🌽🕳🏀 Times:
National Cornhole Day
is Saturday, July 25th.
Cornhole Distance The sun was a high, bright coin in a cloudless blue sky, the kind of day that demanded to be spent outside. In the backyard, laughter bubbled up and mingled with the rhythmic *thump* of beanbags hitting plywood. It was a cornhole kind of afternoon. Two weathered boards, painted in faded red and blue, stood twenty-seven feet apart, their slanted faces like patient, waiting mouths. The holes, those perfect circles of victory, seemed to wink in the dappled light filtering through the oak tree. The grass was soft and warm underfoot. “You ready to get schooled, little brother?” Sarah called, hefting a set of navy blue bags. They were worn soft, the corn filler inside shifting with a comforting, grainy sound. “In your dreams,” Ben shot back, grinning as he picked up the red set. “Just remember who taught you how to throw.” The rules were simple, ancient, and sacred: get your bag in the hole for three points, on the board for one. First to twenty-one wins. But the simplicity was a beautiful lie. This was a game of physics, finesse, and friendly psychological warfare. Sarah went first. She planted her feet, one slightly in front of the other, and sighted down the board. Her arm swung back, then forward in a smooth, underhand arc. The bag left her hand with a gentle spin, sailing in a perfect parabola. *Thump*. It landed cleanly in the center of the board and slid to a stop just short of the hole. “Setting the tone,” she said with a smirk. Ben stepped up. He used a different style, a quicker, flatter throw. His bag flew straight and fast, hitting the board with a sharper crack. It didn’t slide; it stopped dead where it landed, blocking the path to the hole. A defensive play. The game unfolded like a slow, pleasant dance. Back and forth they went, the score ticking up in increments. A bag would teeter on the edge of the hole, the entire backyard holding its breath, only to be knocked in—or out—by a subsequent throw. There were moments of pure grace: a bag thrown with just the right loft and backspin that seemed to kiss the front edge of the hole and drop silently in for a “swish.” There were moments of comedy: an overzealous throw that sailed clear over the board and into the hydrangeas, or a bag that hit the ground first with a disappointing *plop*. “Pressure’s on, Ben,” Sarah sang. She was at eighteen. He was at sixteen. Her bags were clustered near the hole. Ben studied the layout. He needed a miracle—a direct shot into the hole to catch up. He wiped his palms on his shorts, picked up his last red bag. The chatter from the patio, where their parents were sipping lemonade and offering unhelpful advice, faded into a buzz. All he saw was the hole, and Sarah’s blue bag partially obscuring it. He didn’t go for the aggressive, direct hit. Instead, he aimed for the front corner of the board. He threw with a high, soft arc. The bag floated up, seemed to hang against the blue sky for a moment, then descended. It landed with a whisper on the very edge of the board, its momentum carrying it forward in a slow, curling slide. It nudged Sarah’s blocking bag just enough to the side, then, as if guided by an invisible hand, it continued its path and slipped into the hole. Silence, then an eruption. “No way!” Sarah shouted, her hands on her head. “Way!” Ben yelled, pumping his fist. The score was tied. It was Sarah’s turn, sudden death. One bag to decide it all. She took a deep breath, the playful taunting gone, replaced by a focused calm. She repeated her smooth, practiced motion. The bag flew, a perfect, spinning arc. It hit the board high, slid down the slope, and headed straight for the hole. It reached the edge… and stopped. Teetering. Half the bag over the void, half on solid wood. Time suspended. The bag wobbled, caught between gravity and friction. Then, with a nearly imperceptible shift, it surrendered. It tipped over and disappeared into the hole with a soft, final *thud*. Sarah erupted in a victory dance. Ben groaned, but his smile never left his face. He walked over and offered a hand. “Good game.” “Great game,” she corrected, shaking it. “You almost had me with that last slide.” As they gathered the beanbags, the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in oranges and purples. The game was over, but the feeling lingered—the satisfaction of a physical challenge met, the joy of a shared ritual, the simple, profound pleasure of a beanbag arcing through a summer evening. It was never just about the points. It was about the *thump*, the slide, the tease of the teeter, and the laughter that echoed long after the last bag had fallen. It was, they both knew, the perfect way to spend a day.

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Cornhole Basketball ™ Official
NBA BOARDS (ALL 30 Teams)

Cornhole Basketball BOARDS

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Cornhole Basketball ™ Official
NBA BAGS (All 30 Teams)

Cornhole Basketball BAGS