The Day I Took up Golf
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I don't know what made me think that I could play golf. Just because my husband was an expert and my friend Frances wanted to learn too, I thought I'd give it a try. If nothing else, I learned just a little bit about what actually goes on out there.
First hole: Frances and I both managed to get the ball into the hole in a respectable 12 or 15 shots. I don't remember exactly how many. We had agreed that we were not going to keep score, though I secretly think Frances was making a mark each and every time she stopped and hit the ball.
We weren't exactly certain of the direction for the next hole, so after some discussion, headed out where we believed it to be. Alas, there it was, Hole #2! We both managed to slam those little balls a lot further than we did off the first tee, so we had quite a distance to walk to get to our balls. Thankfully at least, we did find them, but as I proceeded to figure out where to aim my next shot, I realized I was carrying a large pole with a little flag attached to the top of it in my hand. I turned and asked Frances, "What the heck are you supposed to do with this thing?"
Frances replied in all earnestness, "I think you were supposed to leave it in the hole at the first green."
"Oh really?" I asked.
"Really!" she replied and instantly broke out laughing. I was already red in the face from the heat of the Texas sun, so there was nothing to do but laugh along with her. In fact, when I realized what I’d done, the full gravity of it all, I laughed so hard that I pretty much wet my pants.
"At least walk back there with me, okay?" I appealed to her sense of guilt for not noticing my mistake.
Since it wasn't any fun to go on by herself, Frances obliged and we headed back toward green #1. But as we headed through the brush (a little shortcut we thought), something strange caught our eye and we found ourselves spying on a middle aged 'duffer' (not totally sure what that means but that’s what my husband later called him!) on his hands and knees very cautiously peeping underneath his golf cart. As we watched, he made short quick jabs with his club underneath the cart, hopped up and backwards and then slowly approached his cart again with his big behind way up in the air, his club probing like a pool cue. He was quite entertaining really, and we found ourselves thoroughly intrigued. This routine repeated itself about three times before another group of guys, younger and bolder, came up and asked him what was going on (at least we think that's what they asked).
Soon the duffer's dilemma became clear as one of the younger guys blindly stuck his arm into a cavity of the golf cart and pulled out a snake, one of the longest, fattest, and likely saddest snakes I've ever seen. Injured and too dazed to strike, the snake was limp but wiggling enough to send Frances and I scurrying back to hole #1 to stick the silly pole with the little flag back where it belonged. With a bit more awareness of what could be lurking in the bushes, we laughed albeit a little nervously as we rehashed the events.
After only one and a half holes, we decided we didn't want to be golfers after all and thought it best to just go to the stupid clubhouse and get something really cold to drink. I mean, really! This was Texas, and it was summer, and it's so ridiculous to hit a little ball around a snake pit and have to keep track of the little flags all the time.
(Of course, we had to go back to hole #2 first to retrieve our clubs which we had left all by their lonely when we abandoned them on the mission to return the pole and watch the duffer with his snake.)
We found out later that the snake was a lowly rat snake, a good type of snake to have around in Texas, and that he was gravely injured from trying to hitch a ride in the little cart. Poor thing. One of the young kids working there took him home, and to this day I wonder if that snake ever recovered enough to go golfing again.
Such an adventure, this golfing! Now I know what men do out there on the weekends. And I'm okay with that; just don't ask me to go along!
This short, embarrassingly true story was written by me shortly after it happened. To the best of my knowledge Frances never played golf again either.
I don't know what made me think that I could play golf. Just because my husband was an expert and my friend Frances wanted to learn too, I thought I'd give it a try. If nothing else, I learned just a little bit about what actually goes on out there.
First hole: Frances and I both managed to get the ball into the hole in a respectable 12 or 15 shots. I don't remember exactly how many. We had agreed that we were not going to keep score, though I secretly think Frances was making a mark each and every time she stopped and hit the ball.
We weren't exactly certain of the direction for the next hole, so after some discussion, headed out where we believed it to be. Alas, there it was, Hole #2! We both managed to slam those little balls a lot further than we did off the first tee, so we had quite a distance to walk to get to our balls. Thankfully at least, we did find them, but as I proceeded to figure out where to aim my next shot, I realized I was carrying a large pole with a little flag attached to the top of it in my hand. I turned and asked Frances, "What the heck are you supposed to do with this thing?"
Frances replied in all earnestness, "I think you were supposed to leave it in the hole at the first green."
"Oh really?" I asked.
"Really!" she replied and instantly broke out laughing. I was already red in the face from the heat of the Texas sun, so there was nothing to do but laugh along with her. In fact, when I realized what I’d done, the full gravity of it all, I laughed so hard that I pretty much wet my pants.
"At least walk back there with me, okay?" I appealed to her sense of guilt for not noticing my mistake.
Since it wasn't any fun to go on by herself, Frances obliged and we headed back toward green #1. But as we headed through the brush (a little shortcut we thought), something strange caught our eye and we found ourselves spying on a middle aged 'duffer' (not totally sure what that means but that’s what my husband later called him!) on his hands and knees very cautiously peeping underneath his golf cart. As we watched, he made short quick jabs with his club underneath the cart, hopped up and backwards and then slowly approached his cart again with his big behind way up in the air, his club probing like a pool cue. He was quite entertaining really, and we found ourselves thoroughly intrigued. This routine repeated itself about three times before another group of guys, younger and bolder, came up and asked him what was going on (at least we think that's what they asked).
Soon the duffer's dilemma became clear as one of the younger guys blindly stuck his arm into a cavity of the golf cart and pulled out a snake, one of the longest, fattest, and likely saddest snakes I've ever seen. Injured and too dazed to strike, the snake was limp but wiggling enough to send Frances and I scurrying back to hole #1 to stick the silly pole with the little flag back where it belonged. With a bit more awareness of what could be lurking in the bushes, we laughed albeit a little nervously as we rehashed the events.
After only one and a half holes, we decided we didn't want to be golfers after all and thought it best to just go to the stupid clubhouse and get something really cold to drink. I mean, really! This was Texas, and it was summer, and it's so ridiculous to hit a little ball around a snake pit and have to keep track of the little flags all the time.
(Of course, we had to go back to hole #2 first to retrieve our clubs which we had left all by their lonely when we abandoned them on the mission to return the pole and watch the duffer with his snake.)
We found out later that the snake was a lowly rat snake, a good type of snake to have around in Texas, and that he was gravely injured from trying to hitch a ride in the little cart. Poor thing. One of the young kids working there took him home, and to this day I wonder if that snake ever recovered enough to go golfing again.
Such an adventure, this golfing! Now I know what men do out there on the weekends. And I'm okay with that; just don't ask me to go along!
This short, embarrassingly true story was written by me shortly after it happened. To the best of my knowledge Frances never played golf again either.