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
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