The Wacky Side of Golf |
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19TH HOLE COMEDY • Today, the blog • Tomorrow, the book |
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Why Club Pros Don't Stay at Jobs Too Long This entry was posted on 3/23/2006 12:00 PM and is filed under uncategorized. Hello? Hey, Jimmy, it’s Lou. We’ve gotta talk. What’s the matter? Have I been playing good, or what? Remember the 68 I threw at you last week? The skins game when I sent everybody home penniless? How about my back-to-back club championships? My game is on cruise control. Right? Sure, so what? Well, Saturday was the 3rd annual Big-Hitters 36 Hole Megabucks Skins Game and, even with my newly-acquired handicap, the one with the plus sign in front of it, I was an odds-on favorite to coast. I entered an extra twenty grand in my check register -- on suspicion. That’s why I decided not to play. You’re too tough. Wise decision. Heck, I was the leader in the clubhouse before they unlocked the door to the joint. Man, was I confident. There was a big storm Friday night , a blitz: lightning, thunder, all that kind of stuff -- but I slept like a log. I went off the air after dinner like I was hit with a tranquilizing dart. I could have slept standing up in a hammock, that’s how confident I was. I get the idea your confidence is a thing of the past. What gives? Lemme tell you the whole story. So, Saturday morning, I bounced out of the sack at the crack of dawn, rubbed my eyes, scratched my ass and dropped to the floor to do my exercises. The ones the Navy Seals use. Yep, those. I sang in the shower, put on my lucky golf shirt, the one with my intimidating flaming-fist logo and drove to the club. You shoulda seen me. I pretended I was in a private jet headed to the US Open. I practiced the acceptance speech I’d give once I creamed the field by about a dozen shots. Don’t tell me you took the gas pipe. Hang in there. I glided along, my feet barely touched the pavement on my way to the practice range. I even went out of my way to doff my cap to Duffy Winslow and Barney McClusky, two creeps I usually avoid because they don’t know the word “press.” Now I get to the practice tee and slip into a new ebony golf glove -- with my flaming-fist logo across the velcro strip. For crying out loud, gimme the Cliff Notes version. Clam up. You’ve gotta get the full picture of what happened. I snatched a wedge outta my gun-metal black golf bag, I know, the bag with your flaming-fist logo. That’s it. Then I flipped a ball from the pyramid and nudged it to a cushy lie on a tuft of grass, squared my shoulders and feet and took dead aim at the 130 yard target flag. I waggled once and picked up right where I left off on Friday -- continuing to amaze myself with the smoothest swing in the hemisphere -- Golf Digest would kill for sequence photos. I’m gonna hang up. It’s something to watch a shot arch its way to the green and plop like a rain drop, six inches from the pin -- time after time. I pumped my fist and exclaimed to no one in particular: Holy crap! Today’s the day. Today’s the day I glide to, oh, let’s see, um, a slick 67. Sure, that’s it, five-under for the day. This time it’ll cost the boys about a grand a stroke. Well, did it? Did you win or did you crumble? Hush. I worked my way through the bag, club by club -- each shot better, truer than the last. Pretty soon I was smashing 4-irons, drilling laser shots into the distance. About then, Fletcher Dip, the club pro, wandered by to say hello. He asked, “How’s it going?” Don’t tell me. I know what happened. Fletcher told you to turn pro. I told him, today’s my day. I said, you’re looking at a combination of Fred Astaire and Superman. Grace and power. I’m on fire. We exchanged a few polite words -- all the while I continue to rifle ball after ball effortlessly toward the horizon, secretly hoping Fletcher would compliment me, say my shots were astonishing. Did he? No. Just before he left the range, he said, “Break your wrists a little sooner. “I think it will help your game.” You know the rest of the story. You lost your hat, ass and overcoat. Yeah. And I'm gonna kill the bastard. Click. * * * |
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