Phil's Propeller Clubs

It reminded me of one of those “Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote” kind of days.  In the early spring the snow disappears, the sun starts poking his head through the clouds, and the first major golf tournament is held in August, Georgia every year, The Masters.  All of these symptoms of early spring infect golfers just as much as Medieval Pilgrims.  The snow isn’t non-existent in early spring however.  It just changes form.  The “shoures soote” was flooding the golf course when my buddies and I went out for our first outing of early spring.  We didn’t care.  After watching The Masters, we could not hold a thought other than a flush green fairway for more than thirty seconds.  We had to get the monkey off our backs, so we put some rain gear on, through the club covers over top our bags, grabbed some Jameson, and hit the links.

I went golfing that afternoon with two lefties; one of whom was rather stupid, we’ll call him Jeremy.  He forgot his clubs at his house 45 minutes away, so the other lefty, we’ll call him Phil, out of the kindness of his heart, shared his southpaw clubs with with Jeremy.  Phil would soon realize that no good deed goes unpunished.  

We arrived at the clubhouse for our 10:00 am tee time around 9:30.  Not only was it raining on the course, but it was chilly for April.  It was about 50 degrees, and with a sopping wet clothes, my buddies and I felt every bit of that 50 degrees.  Especially Phil.  Poor Phil did not come very prepared for the conditions that we were battling.  While Jeremy and I had waterproof pullovers and khakis, Phil decided that he would be comfortable in shorts and a polo.  For having such good Karma on his side, Phil was off to a rough start before he hit a single ball.  

There is something beautiful about a golf course covered in rain drops.  On every green, there were an infinite amount of diamonds awaiting every player who would inevitably be shanking their Titleists and Callaways anywhere other than the tin cup.  Inside every cup was a pool of water that shakes your hand with a frozen greeting when you reach to get your ball out after a well earned triple bogey.   

On the 4th tee box, Phil already seemed to be showing signs of hypothermia, but he knew that we would relentlessly tear him apart if he complained about the weather while wearing his summer attire.  He kept his mouth shut.  He teed up his ball and prepared to send it no further than his mediocre swing can  manage.  He brought his club back and forward,  and just as he made horrible contact with the ball, it sounded like a helicopter was taking off from the palm of his hands.  The grips on his clubs were compromised, so his 6 iron flew ten feet in the air behind us.  It looked,  and sounded, like a propellor spun right off its axis.  The club lodged itself up in a tree just out of our reach.  Jeremy and I had to hide our laughter while Phil did his walk of shame down the fairway to find his ball that rolled about 20 yards.  At least his day couldn't get any worse from there right?... Wrong.

On the 9th tee box, Jeremy grabbed one of Phil’s clubs to tee off this particularly difficult tee box that was placed just on top of a steep ravine (you probably know where this is going and you are right).  Jeremy reached back with Phil’s soon to be second missing club of the day, and took his swing. Jeremy sent Phil’s 8 iron right down to the depths of the ravine.  As Yogi Berra would say, it was deja vu all over again.  Both Jeremy and I turned to Phil to see him with his head in his hands.  He looked like a child who could’t finds his mother in a grocery store.  Jeremy felt awful.  I was dying of laughter.  Phil was now just as disappointed as he was freezing.

Because Jeremy and I felt so bad for Phil, we decided to call it a round after that travesty of a 9th hole.  We tried to make it up to Phil by taking him to hooters and buying him some wings and beer.  After his 3rd wing , 7th beer, and 2nd waitress to make fun of him for wearing shorts, he forgot all about his two missing clubs.  

Just to add closer to this disaster of a golf outing, Jeremy and I went back to that same course a couple weeks later when it was warm.  On that 4th tee box we went searching in that same tree that we figured was the grave sight of Phil’s 6 iron.  Amazingly, we found it.  That 8 Iron is another story.  That sucker will stay down in that ravine for a long time.             

Hit ‘em Long,  Hit ‘em Straight,

Sean

The Weather and Golf

It’s back.  Warm weather has finally returned to us after a grueling winter.  There is a true correlation between golfing and a spring day that links the two so tightly that it is almost impossible not to fantasize about playing 18 when the smell of fresh cut grass fills the air.  We all have been sitting at work or sitting in class on a 70 degree day and have daydreamed about putting for birdie.  Putting for bogey is probably more accurate, at least for my case, but the score is not the point.  What is important is that golf and warm days go together like bunkers and sand wedges.  

All this being said, I am not one of those guys who believes the old cliche that worst day on the golf course beats the best day at work.  That’s ridiculous.  Sometimes the game of golf can get in your mind, infect your brain, and ruin an entire weekend.  You might hit a couple bad shots in a round, come back home and be short tempered with your wife or significant other, and then, before you know it, you’re in the doghouse.  All this because of a couple bad drives out of the tee box.  

I’ve played horrible rounds on beautiful 75 degree days, and I have played great rounds during a November 40 degree rainstorm.  Just like anything else, golf is what you get out of it.  If you just want to go out there to enjoy the weather, then do not get agitated when you shank one or twelve into the woods.  After all, you’re out there just to enjoy the day right?   

I’d probably just go to work if I had to putt through that crap on the left.   

Hit ‘em Long, Hit ‘em Straight,

Sean    

"Water or PBR"

The thermometer in the clubhouse read 95 degrees.  It was one of those days on the course when the bottles of Jack Daniels were replaced by bottles of Deer Park in the golf bag. The heat wave did not stop my two buddies and I from playing a quick 18 on that August weekend.  

      

The course we were playing that day was a new one for me, however, my two friends had had some experience with the course already.  The main topic of conversation between my two friends before teeing off had nothing to do with the course or the blazing heat; the only part of their previous round at that course that they can remember was the cart girl.  A cart girl has the very important job of serving drinks and snacks to the golfers.  All courses require that this position be filled by a lady, usually in her mid twenties, and, most of all, be rather attractive.  All courses have them, but my buddies kept saying that this particular course had the most beautiful girl they had ever seen operate a golf cart.  I didn't really believe them.  These two particular friends of mine think any girl who gives them beer is the prettiest girl in the world.  

      

The heat was like a soaking wet blanket.  The 90% humidity made it tough to breath at times.  It was like holding your breath in a hot tub.  Even when the sprinklers came on, the water evaporated immediately into the air, barely leaving enough moisture for the grass to drink to keep its illustrious, green color.  You did not even want to drink out of the water coolers that the golf course had placed at every tee box because the water lost it's chill earlier that morning.  

      

We drove up to the 7th tee box and still had no sign of the mythical siren that my two buddies were still praying to see.  I figured she must have had the day off, but my two friends refused to lose hope that they would again see the face that launched a thousand golf carts.  They knew that she would want to be out today because it was so hot.  I had to agree with their logic.  A pretty girl serving drinks on a day like this could make enough money to retire early.

      

Just as I lined up my shot, I noticed a cart down the path adjacent to the fairway.  This cart was larger than usual. As it drove closer to our tee box, I noticed that it was being operated by a woman with auburn hair.  Her hair was the first thing I saw. The way the aggressive sun shone on her made her hair very striking.  She stopped her cart and signaled to us to tee off, and she would wait to drive through.  I suddenly felt an unbearable amount of pressure.  No golfer wants to embarrass himself by shanking his ball when the cart girl is watching carefully.  Luckily, I hit my best drive of the day. I wish I could say the same for my two friends.  After they had shamed themselves by hitting their balls into the woods, we drove down to where the cart girl was parked.  As I drew closer to her, I noticed she had a face full of freckles and skin that was as white as milk.  She wore this look very well; it was as if she was an Irish Aphrodite.  At this point, I assumed my two friends had forgotten how to talk, so I knew that I would have to break the ice.  I hopped out of my car and said hello, and before she could say hello back, she smiled, and because of her smile it did not feel like it was a million degrees anymore.  When her face lit up, I was taken aback to spring time.  I was, to my own surprise, smitten.  I had to give it to my friends, they were right.

 

I only had a 5 dollar bill, and I wanted to make sure to tip her well, so I polity asked if she had anything under 3 dollars.  That is when she said it, in a voice that only exists in poet's mind when writing about a first love that ended in tragic beauty, "Water or PBR."  Not only did it sound like she sang it, but her lyrics where my two favorite beverages in the whole world.  

      

I bought the PBR, tipped my hat, and we continued our round. We never saw her again.  Not even when we played that course the next week, which was the only reason we went back.  I think that makes me appreciate the encounter all the more. I am proud of the fact that I can notice all of that romantic "what-have-you" about a girl without it being interrupted by the usual disease of thoughts that all of us males suffer from.  Does that mean I wish I would have spoken to the girl more? Absolutely not.  I am perfectly content with the memory.   

Hit 'em Long, Hit 'em Straight,

Sean