Par For Most Courses

by Rich on April 9, 2018

In honor of Masters Week, I decided to end my three year abstinence from the game and grabbed my clubs to hit the links. Since I need to write off the incurred expenses from my round, I am obligated to write about it. My apologies.

Having shunned the sticks for such a long period of time, I felt it unfair to subject anyone else to the ensuing carnage. Arriving alone at the local public course before lunch during the week ensured that I wouldn’t have much company, which was just fine with me. Paying for the round in the pro shop, the marshal started to ask if he could pair me with another single. After closer inspection of my outdated attire and ancient clubs, he thought better of it, and pointed me to the bar, suggesting I grab some “liquid courage” for the round. Wise counsel.

I don’t hit balls on the driving range or stoke puts on the practice green. I only have so  many halfway decent shots in me and I’m not wasting them on something that doesn’t count. I hopped in the cart and headed for the first tee box (don’t worry, I’m not going to be one of those dreadfully boring jerks who responds to the innocent query, “How was your round?” with a stroke by stroke recount of the score card). On the way I did the most important thing that I can do whenever I play golf alone. I stopped the beverage cart girl (Lola) and told her to either follow me for eighteen, or give me her cell phone number and expect text orders. She did the latter. I handed her my Jeep keys and told her not to give them back until the Uber driver picked me up. Looking confused, she handed me my beverages and went on her way.

The first four holes went pretty good. I lost a mere six balls and used only one for the par three with no water. Lola got tired of my constant texts and began following me. After the second hole, I handed over my wallet. Score: +9

Holes five through seven where uneventful except for the disturbance caused by the pizza delivery guy who got lost in an over-sized bunker trying to find me. I would also like to state for the record that slinging my club across the street was the result of ice Lola left on the can and not because I missed a 6 inch put. Pepperoni grease was also not a factor. Score +19

It wasn’t long after I made the turn that Lola and Brice (the pizza guy) decided I shouldn’t drive the cart anymore. At thirteen, Brice accused me of cheating and demanded to keep score. I tried to hit him with my five iron but missed by a country mile. My fairway game stinks outside of a hundred yards. Score through fourteen: +41

To be frank, the rest of the round is fuzzy. At one point I think Lola and Brice were making out next to a ball washer. I lost a shoe and cut my knee on a pin flag trying to answer the call of nature.

The next morning I retrieved the Jeep and my wallet, signed the loan papers to pay the bill in the clubhouse, and found the scorecard on my windshield. There was no tallied score, but a note scribbled in pencil: “Thanks for introducing us, and for the generous tip. Here’s one from us: stick to watching golf! Love, Brice and Lola.”

Great kids…


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