Frost delay, yesterday morning, so stayed home and went to church w/wife. Afternoon was gorgeous. Wife said I was grumpy and to go play. (Thought she'd never ask!) Headed to course...
Sent to first tee w/ two other singles. One was about my age, deaf (said his battery in his hearing aid was bad), and a struggling golfer. Everything went right... if it got off the ground. But, kept up and seemed to be enjoying the day in his "silent" mode.
The other was a much younger flat-belly. This young man had a beard down to, about, nipple height... Dolly Parton's nipples at age 85! Chain smoker. Never took the cig out of his mouth while swinging. How he kept from catching his beard on fire was beyond me!
His cap was a Callaway "Tour" hat... one of the new ones. His bag was an FT3 driver and a set of X14's, a Cleveland 588 wedge and an Odyssey 2-ball.
Since colder weather has set in, I've left the driver at home. Hitting the 2-wood off the tee. After 4 holes, the gentleman my age isn't even keeping score. The younger "gentleman" has yet to hit a fairway with his FT3, and has carded at least a double on every hole. For some insane reason, I'm even.
As we are leaving the 4th green, the older gentleman remarks "You must find this an extremely boring game, making nothing but pars!" He and I share a laugh and I tell him it will fall apart... soon! The younger gentleman is obviously seething. It's barely 40 degrees and you can almost see the steam coming from under his "tour" hat. He has now clammed up and is not talking to anyone.
On 5 and 6 the older gentleman and I both put balls in the fairway. The younger guy puts both drives into the trees on the right. Both times, the peaceful sunshine of a fall afternoon is broken with loudly uttered vulgarities. We offer to help him find his ball. He tells us he is perfectly capable of finding it on his own! (Yes, sir! Just trying to help.)
I bogey 5 and par 6. 7 is a par 3. My 8-iron ends up some 4' from the pin. The older gentleman is just short of the green. The "bearded one" takes a mighty swing and duck hooks his iron into the deep crap on the left. With no utterances... no warning... the iron helicopters off into the wild blue yonder, following almost the same identical path as did the aformentioned ball. With amazement, we now realize a rather athletic, tall, lanky, young man can throw a club close to 150 yards!! Now, he has the full attention of both of us other two. We're anxiously waiting to see him pull a sawed off shotgun from his bag and begin destroying all other golfers on the course!!
So... do I make the birdie on 7 and chance further agitation? Or.... Once he hits to the green and both he and the other gentleman putt out, I sink the birdie. Still even, after 7... and the tension is building!!!
8 is a long par 5. All 3 of us are in the fairway. (First fairway the younger lad has hit all day!) I make the obligatory "Great drive!" comment and am met with two beady eyes staring from above the beard... glaring from above the beard... glaring hate and anger. The second shot on the par 5 saw the older fella push one into the right rough. My hybrid went down the middle. The younger's drive was the longest so he was last to hit his second. Not sure what long iron he decided to use. Regardless, the mightly swing dug a trench deep enough to bury Rosie O'donnel. The ball, I'm sure feeling luckey, traveled a full 5 to 7 yards before deciding to stop. The shout of "G** D*** I* To F****** H***!!!" was followed by the crash of the iron shaft across the back of the stand bag. I've never seen such an orderly, systematic, picturesque collapse of a bag full of clubs. In what was almost slow motion, the stand bag, with it's stay broken, slowly bent and then rolled... like a falling tree... to the ground. With a kick of his right foot, the falling bag was subjected to yet one more indignity. The kick sent the bag to almost the same point as the ball was now laying. The fella proceeded to walk to the bag, picked up the broken bag and his ball, slung the bag over his shoulder, and walked towards the clubhouse from #8 fairway. No "sweet farewells"... No adios... With cigarette smoke even more stoked by his, I'm certain, deeper breaths of extreme frustration, we followed with thankful eyes his trapse towards the house. The older gentleman commented, "And, in that mood, he's going ot get into a car and drive home?????"
The remainder of the round was much more enjoyable, however, less exciting. And, sure enough, with the pressure of Mr. Nice Guy absent, my game returned to it's usual crop of bogeys and worse. The front nine... a 37 (1 over)... was one of the best this year. The back... relaxed... took substantially more strokes. I'll need to get the "Bearded One's" phone number and invite him to play again. It's amazing how well I played, not worrying about the score... just worrying about survival!!!!
Sent to first tee w/ two other singles. One was about my age, deaf (said his battery in his hearing aid was bad), and a struggling golfer. Everything went right... if it got off the ground. But, kept up and seemed to be enjoying the day in his "silent" mode.
The other was a much younger flat-belly. This young man had a beard down to, about, nipple height... Dolly Parton's nipples at age 85! Chain smoker. Never took the cig out of his mouth while swinging. How he kept from catching his beard on fire was beyond me!
His cap was a Callaway "Tour" hat... one of the new ones. His bag was an FT3 driver and a set of X14's, a Cleveland 588 wedge and an Odyssey 2-ball.
Since colder weather has set in, I've left the driver at home. Hitting the 2-wood off the tee. After 4 holes, the gentleman my age isn't even keeping score. The younger "gentleman" has yet to hit a fairway with his FT3, and has carded at least a double on every hole. For some insane reason, I'm even.
As we are leaving the 4th green, the older gentleman remarks "You must find this an extremely boring game, making nothing but pars!" He and I share a laugh and I tell him it will fall apart... soon! The younger gentleman is obviously seething. It's barely 40 degrees and you can almost see the steam coming from under his "tour" hat. He has now clammed up and is not talking to anyone.
On 5 and 6 the older gentleman and I both put balls in the fairway. The younger guy puts both drives into the trees on the right. Both times, the peaceful sunshine of a fall afternoon is broken with loudly uttered vulgarities. We offer to help him find his ball. He tells us he is perfectly capable of finding it on his own! (Yes, sir! Just trying to help.)
I bogey 5 and par 6. 7 is a par 3. My 8-iron ends up some 4' from the pin. The older gentleman is just short of the green. The "bearded one" takes a mighty swing and duck hooks his iron into the deep crap on the left. With no utterances... no warning... the iron helicopters off into the wild blue yonder, following almost the same identical path as did the aformentioned ball. With amazement, we now realize a rather athletic, tall, lanky, young man can throw a club close to 150 yards!! Now, he has the full attention of both of us other two. We're anxiously waiting to see him pull a sawed off shotgun from his bag and begin destroying all other golfers on the course!!
So... do I make the birdie on 7 and chance further agitation? Or.... Once he hits to the green and both he and the other gentleman putt out, I sink the birdie. Still even, after 7... and the tension is building!!!
8 is a long par 5. All 3 of us are in the fairway. (First fairway the younger lad has hit all day!) I make the obligatory "Great drive!" comment and am met with two beady eyes staring from above the beard... glaring from above the beard... glaring hate and anger. The second shot on the par 5 saw the older fella push one into the right rough. My hybrid went down the middle. The younger's drive was the longest so he was last to hit his second. Not sure what long iron he decided to use. Regardless, the mightly swing dug a trench deep enough to bury Rosie O'donnel. The ball, I'm sure feeling luckey, traveled a full 5 to 7 yards before deciding to stop. The shout of "G** D*** I* To F****** H***!!!" was followed by the crash of the iron shaft across the back of the stand bag. I've never seen such an orderly, systematic, picturesque collapse of a bag full of clubs. In what was almost slow motion, the stand bag, with it's stay broken, slowly bent and then rolled... like a falling tree... to the ground. With a kick of his right foot, the falling bag was subjected to yet one more indignity. The kick sent the bag to almost the same point as the ball was now laying. The fella proceeded to walk to the bag, picked up the broken bag and his ball, slung the bag over his shoulder, and walked towards the clubhouse from #8 fairway. No "sweet farewells"... No adios... With cigarette smoke even more stoked by his, I'm certain, deeper breaths of extreme frustration, we followed with thankful eyes his trapse towards the house. The older gentleman commented, "And, in that mood, he's going ot get into a car and drive home?????"
The remainder of the round was much more enjoyable, however, less exciting. And, sure enough, with the pressure of Mr. Nice Guy absent, my game returned to it's usual crop of bogeys and worse. The front nine... a 37 (1 over)... was one of the best this year. The back... relaxed... took substantially more strokes. I'll need to get the "Bearded One's" phone number and invite him to play again. It's amazing how well I played, not worrying about the score... just worrying about survival!!!!