MY Golf Lesson

This is hot of the press and probably teeming with errors. This piece was inspired by Lawrie, so any short comings should be laid at his door.1

My Golf Lesson2

I was once strong-armed into a game of golf, many years ago—when I wore a younger mans clothes. Chuck, my so-called friend and self appointed teacher, was certain he could create a golfing fanatic out of me. I can only tell you, he never again invited me out for a lesson.3

‘First,’ he said ‘you must address the ball.’ Now I have addressed some mighty mouthed losers in my time, but never, anything as mundane as a ball and by damn, I wasn’t about to start now. Next he instructed ‘swing the club back over your head and keeping your eye on the ball, hit it with the club.’ Everything seemed to be working good until the swing cleared my shoulder and started its descent. 4

The ball seeing the club approaching jumped to the right; the club veered to the left hitting my left foot a chancing blow. I did manage to complete my back swing more or less, but some where between my left shoulder and my right, I lost my grip on the club and it bonked Chuck on the head. He wasn’t too happy about it, but I was busy hoping around on my right foot, while massaging my left, to care all that much. 5

My next assault on the ball was rather good—I hit it with crack that must have been heard on the eighteenth hole. The ball didn’t go very high, but it flew at super speed, straight at an oak tree. The rebound sent both Chuck and I scrambling for covers, in a place were it was at a premium.6

When it was over I noticed that my ball was about five feet further away from the green, than it had been when I started. I had the fleeting thought that if I was to play the ball away from the green, perhaps we would get there faster.7

My next swing sent the ball soaring; Chuck said, I had skied it. I can’t remember if that annoyed or please him. I kept my eyes on the ball as it almost disappeared, and then grew as it descended. At about thirty-five feet it started drifting to the left and I thought at least I was making some head way when it plunked down right in the middle of a small lake someone had strategically placed right at that exact spot.8

On the way to the lake, Chuck explained that a water shot would cost me a stroke and a new ball. I wasn’t worried about the stroke, but the new ball. based on what the club was charging was a little steep. 9

I was now playing, in what Chuck called, a bit of a rough. My approach to the green was screened, by a popular grove, but I could see an opening in the screen which if hit perfectly, would result in my being on the green in one shot.10

Chuck was counseling me to tap it right onto the fairway and then go for the green. 11

“No, no I can make this shot and a save myself, one stoke to the green.”12

I was rather pleased with my shot from the rough, it didn’t go though the opening dead center, but rather cut its way through a bunch of leaves at the side. I couldn’t see exactly were it dropped, but as we approached, it was evident; the ball was in a sort of sand box.13

‘It’s a sand trap,’ Chuck offered, ‘there’s a series of three skirting this approach to the green. Take a swing at the sand just a little lower than your ball, the theory is to blast the sand away allowing you club to strike the ball at is bottom, thus popping it up on the green.’ 14

I could certainly understand why they called the shot, a sand blast. The sand blasted up in a cloud that surly would have been considered a sand storm in some places, but the ball flew to the right and landed in the next sand trap. 15

Chuck shouted; don’t tell me, you’re going to visit the all sand trap, right?16

All I could say was, if you didn’t shout at me all the time, I would do a lot better. 17

Chuck just walked over to the last sand trap, waited for and dug my ball out of the sand tossing it on the green.18

‘Play from there,’ he said, trying his best to hide some emotion, I couldn’t identify.19

Well about three or four shots later we had finished our first of eighteen holes. 20

I thought this was the perfect time to suggest we call it a game and admit golf was not for me.21

‘Never’ Chuck said, ‘I paid for eighteen holes and by God that’s what we will play if it kills us both.’22

I’m not going to burden you with all eighteen holes, but we played them and I’d like to tell you I got better as we progressed, but I think if you multiply the first by eighteen you will pretty much get the picture.23

My departure from the golf course was the brightest moment I had experienced, certainly in the last six and a half hours. I was on course for the parking lot, despite the excruciating pain in my left foot and an increasing cramp like sensation in my right shoulder. Nothing could get me down, even if my left foot dropped off, I would have gimped over to the Chuck’s car on my bloody stump.24

I couldn’t believe it—Chuck was standing just short of the parking lot calling me. I muttered a string of obscenities, which would have caused a mule skinner to blush, as I made my way back to within talking distance.25

‘Come on, we have one more hole to play—the nineteenth, it’s this way, and he took off to-ward the club-house. I followed, assuming a hop, skip, kick, stride that was the least objectionable from my foot’s point of view. When I finally caught up with chuck I was about to cut him a new kind of hole, but was dumb struck, as the setting I was in finally sank in.26

“Why, in the name of mercy, didn’t you tell me we were going to the bar?”27

Chuck with a stupid smile plastered on his face and just pointed at the bar. I looked to see a sign that ran the enter length.28

You have now entered the 19th hole of the Pleasant Valley Golf & Country Club.29

Chuck not wanting me to inadvertently break any of the long established rules told me in a subdued voice, that the expected practice was for the loser to buy the drinks. 30

I privately though that was unusual—I could understand the winner buying the drinks, he after all was celebrating his victory. Well I thought Chuck had paid for both round fees and had driven us out here. Knowing that the first was a king’s ransom and the other also had to be considered. I figured a few shots of a good quality scotch and I would still be on the bright side of this ill thought out affair.31

When I got back to the table complete with two bubble scotches, each on its own bed of crushed ice, Chuck was rubbing his head moaning about the granddaddy of all head aches. He spied the scotch and I could see a snide smile play across his face, I `m not suggesting I’m good at reading people, but with Chuck I had lots of practice. I wasn’t sure what he had up his sleeve, but from all the clues it was going to be special.32

He picked up the glass of scotch, seemed to be examining the amber liquid. He pasted it under his nose a couple of times sniffing the aroma. He held it high and said, in a voice that certainly could be heard by everyone in the bar and probably for a half mile radius. 33

“Here’s a toast to the fine game of golf.” I stood up and in an equal voice said.34

“May she rest in peace?” our glasses clinked35

Well it certainly brought the establishment to life—speaking of which we barely made it out of the grounds whole, with a crowd of irate golfers chasing us.36

Chuck and I are still friends, but we still disagree about the logic of the game of golf. 37