So, I was invited to go hit a bucket o’ balls today. The sun is out here in Denver, and there’s a nice breeze blowing out and away from the line.
It’s perfect.
So, we all pile into my buddy’s truck, and drive over, windows down, playing 80’s hair music all the way. This is the right kind of day for it. If you’ve never experienced a day like this, then I recommend you try.
We get a bucket, and head to the driving line. About ten minutes into the affair, I tee up.
This will be the longest drive anyone has ever witnessed. I’m stronger than these guys, I can crank a softball 350 feet. Surely I can crush this tiny white piece of whatever it is into the next zip code.
I address the ball. “How you doing, ball?”
My resolve is unfettered. Today is mine.
I begin my backswing. The club slowly arcs backward as I inhale. My feet are properly positioned, my grip perfect. Just when it may appear that I can draw the club back no further, I take it just a notch further, and then release like a loaded coil.
The club whistles through the air, and people snap their heads to see. I let loose a grunt, my primal scream. This ball is going to turn to dust. Each of my muscles works as hard as it can to swing this club. The torsion rocks me back on my heels.
I look downrange before I hit the ball.
This of course means that I did not hit the ball, but rather whiffed on it much like an elephant seal doesn’t whiff at a pie thrown by Carrot Top.
My right foot slings out from underneath me as I enter an uncontrollable, off-balance spin. The club, some forty yards downrange, sticks in the soil handle first.
The laughter is already beginning.
My pants legs, stressed my the unusual range of motion they’re being subjected to, decide that the time has come to say goodbye. With a sound like a wet fart under the bedclothes, they decide to part ways immediately, beginning at my crotch.
In an effort to arrest my fall, I reach out for the only thing that was near to me. The golf bag. I am promptly struck in the forehead by the putter, which then decides to continue following the rule of gravity, and plummets directly onto what I think was my left testicle.
I say that I think it was my left because I could not tell. The deafening howling was distracting me. When I finally shut up, the pain had generalized in the area, and it was nigh impossible to ascertain which of the boys had been thumped.
Golf is indeed the sport of kings. Today, I was the jester.
