“Hello?”

    “Hey, Jimmy, it’s Lou.  We’ve gotta talk.”

    “What’s up?”

    “I’ve been playing great, right?  Remember the 68 I threw at you last week and how I cleaned house when we played a match recently?   Toss in back-to-back club championships and you can certify that my game is on cruise control.”

    “So what?”

    “Last Saturday was the annual Big-Hitters 36 Hole Megabucks Skins Game.  Naturally, I was an odds-on favorite, even with my newly-acquired 2-handicap, with a plus sign in front of it.  I added an extra twenty grand in my check book -- on suspicion.”

    “That’s why I didn’t play.  You’re too tough.”

    “Wise move.  Heck, I was the leader in the clubhouse before they swept the dew off the greens.  Man, was I confident.  There was a big storm Friday night -- a blitz: lightning, thunder, miserable weather -- but I slept right through it.  I went off the air after dinner like somebody hit me with a tranquilizing dart.  I could have slept standing up in a hammock.”

    “Why do I get the idea your confidence is a thing of the past.  What gives?”

    “Lemme tell you the whole story.  Saturday morning, I bounced out of the rack 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.  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 an acceptance speech I’d give once I creamed the field by about a dozen shots.”

    “Don’t tell me you took the gas pipe.”

    “Be patient.  I glided along, my feet barely touching the pavement as I walked to the practice range.  Heck, I 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.”  I arrived at the practice tee and slipped 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 gunmetal black golf bag. . .”

    “I know, the bag with your flaming-fist logo.”

    “That’s it.  I flipped a ball from the pyramid, 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 last Friday -- continuing to amaze myself with the smoothest swing in the hemisphere -- Golf Digest would kill for sequence photos.”

    “I’m gonna hang up.”

    “I love to watch shots arch their 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, um, a slick 67.  Yep, 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?”

    “I worked my way through the bag, club by club -- each shot better, truer than the last.  Pretty soon I was smashing four-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 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 continued to rifle ball after ball effortlessly toward the horizon, secretly hoping Fletcher would compliment me, say my shots were astonishing.”

    “Did he?”

    “No.  As he left the range, he said, ‘Break your wrists a bit 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.

                                                                            * * *

 

What did you think of this article?

Liked
Disliked
No Opinion