As God, Buddha, Jehovah, Mohammed, Krishna, Zoroaster, Anubis, Xaman Ek, Wodin, Pan and Zeus are my witnesses, I tell you no lie. That right there is the best lie I had all day. It happened on my initial drive from the tees on the 17th, and it just about put a perfect capper to my latest golf outing.
I must admit that the day did not begin all that auspiciously for this amateur duffer. I made a really nice dent in my new gross of golf balls by dubbing my first three tee shots off the initial tee downhill into the muddy little rivulet that traverses the fairway a mere 20 yards out. (The only way to stop the uproarious laughter from the rest of my foursome — and everyone else that happened to be watching from behind the starter’s post — was to fill every laughing mouth with the cold longneck of a beer, on my tab, of course. But despite my generosity, ten or twelve or fourteen strokes later some of them resumed snickering anyway.)
Hole No. 2 went much better, I thought. My drive traveled at least 200 yards, almost a third of them in the right direction. However, I was never in any real danger of having my spirits lifted too high, for my second shot grazed my partner’s ankle — sorry, Ignatz! — caromed with a tinny clang off the back of our golf cart, and headed back from whence we had come.
By the time we rolled up to the third tee, I was loose and limber and really into my groove. I got my greatest distance of the day, the way I usually do: by bouncing my shot a half dozen times down the cart path far left of the course. Even my divot — which was inexplicably from about 4 feet in front of my still-intact tee — traveled a good 40 feet. It was a rotten shame shot 2 managed to strike that tortoise shell dead (excuse the pun) center. I’m sure the local wildlife center will welcome my donation on behalf of all amphibians.
Four was just an ordinary hole. With the help of some really awesome chipping, I was able to just quintuple-bogey it (if you don’t count the mulligans).
It wasn’t until we got to that really hilly number five with all the water that things got a little interesting. From all the course brochures, you’d think there was only water and a few reeds, and then fairway and bunkers and trees. Who’d have ever thought there’d be virtual acres of sucking swampy muck around every water hazard, capable of pulling unsuspecting balls, clubs, golfers under. Man, it was work lifting a ball out of that mire!
(Personally, I think any dry cleaner worth his salt would be able to get the brackish and slimy black-green mud splatters out of Ignatz’ pink polo and pinstriped bermudas, and I told him so. What a crybaby!)
Well, I don’t need to tell you, by this time I was starting to get a mite testy! I consider myself a pretty adequate three-times-a-summer golfer, but this course just wasn’t giving me a fightin’ chance. So I decided to really bear down when we reached six.
(Okay, breathe in, breathe out. Let’s just put that behind us without saying another word, get out another three or four golf balls and a few spare tees, and really, really, REALLY bear down on seven.)
Well, in the interest of sparing you excess profanity, I won’t burden you with the remainder of my eventful afternoon leading up to my best lie of the day. Suffice it to say that, whereas I was once a golfer and not a serious drinker, you might say I’ve experienced a reversal.
(Anyone interested in a not-very-heavily used set of clubs, most still unbent?)
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