Two Golf Stories


School has been killing me. For the last few months, this week has been my light at the middle of the tunnel. This week is Spring Break. This week, despite MTV’s best efforts, does not involve a beach in Mexico or a V-Jay. It simply means I only work part-time for a week, and I get my afternoons free to play golf. I have two stories I wanted to share from the last few days.

First:

I was putting on the practice green after my round the other day and this guy and his 2 or 3 year old were putting. The guy was practicing, and the kid had those plastic clubs and was knocking a whiffle golf ball around. Every five or ten minutes the kid would yell something when he knocked it into the hole.

After 30 minutes or so the dad says, “Are you ready to go home?”

To which the exasperated kid huffed, “I’m just playing golf dad.”

I looked at the dad and said, “Best. Answer. Ever.”

The dad just beamed with pride.

I am ordering sets of the plastic clubs today for every friend of mine with kids.

Second:

During one of my rounds a few days ago, I was playing as a single and moving quickly. As I approached the eighth tee, nine high school kids walked out of the trees. I was playing a municipal course near my house and there is an adjacent high school. I imagine they were taking some kind of short-cut, or were off in the woods doing what kids do who hide in the woods on a school day. Either way, I didn’t think too much of it.

Then it dawned on me; I was alone at the furthest point from the clubhouse. I am not a small guy, but nine 16-18 year old boys could most certainly kick my ass. In fact, because I am pretty tall, I have not been in too many fights. I have never been picked on, nor am I all that aggressive. Basically, my physical stature has kept me from trouble all my life and so I am sure if I did have to fight, I would undoubtedly lose.

All of that was racing through my mind while I climbed to the tee. I stood over the ball facing a long par four dog-leg left with OB along the left side. The hole was intimidating enough without trying to judge the pack of hoodlums from the corner of my eye.

Then I smoked it. It might have been the purest drive I have hit in a few months. It was a hissing, high, power fade, down the left side that flew the dog-leg and rolled to the right hand side of the fairway. I had an 8i left to a hole I hit 5w the day before.

As I watched my ball, I heard one of the crowd say, “Daaammmnnn, he stroked it.”

Now that was fun.