GOOFEY GOLFERS (originally titled Golfers' Goofs)

Our weekly conversation goes one of two ways:

"How was your game, Doug?"

"Did pretty well on the first nine but had a super back nine."  He may elaborate on birdies, bogies, straight drives and pars.  I just nod as if it all makes sense to me.

Other days we have conversation #2.

"How was your game, Doug?"

He answers in one sentence ranging from,

"Great weather."
"Good fellowship."

"I found 8 balls in the woods off the first hole.  Two were Titlists!"

I nod and this time it actually does make sense to me.  Scores don't count on these days.  It becomes mere exercise.

Once a month we have dinner with 6 friends from college.  We call ourselves the Alum Chums.  Sometimes Doug golfs with Donnie Miles, Bobby Parker or Leroy Welch.  Recently the guys were remembering their past golf disasters.

Doug launched with, "Remember the day I swung and my expensive golf head flew into the lake?"

Bobby remembered, "Yeah and I also recall you wading into muck trying to find it.  No luck.  So you considered coming back in waders to try again.  I talked you outta that!  That's what friends are for."

Donnie & Doug mock acting on their emotions some days.

Donnie winced as he recalled, "And the day my electric cart ran amok right into that lake with my bag of clubs underwater.  I can't believe I moved fast enough and had strength enough to pull it up. . .pure adrenalin!  In emergencies adrenalin gives you super strength to do stuff you normally couldn't do!"

I laughed.  He didn't.

Golf widows get this.  We're a unique breed.  The highs we hear range from that rare hole in one (Doug got one. . .his miracle!) to his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

He played with another friend, a retired preacher, and they both had a pretty good game.  Loading his new clubs into the friend's truck bed, he opted not to tie them down. (You know where this is going, don't you?  It's called foreshadowing!) A few miles down the road, folks began passing them and honking horns. Looking back they saw Doug's golf bag hanging over the truck's tailgate. Sparks flew as heads scraped asphalt, eventually flinging clubs for about a mile.  Going back to see if any were retrievable was like a funeral for a golfer.  Mangled, twisted clubs left a morbid trail.  He wanted to cry but golfers don't do that.  

It was several days before Doug had the courage to tell me the cost in dollars.  When he finally did, I wanted to cry but golf wives don't do that. Instead they find the adrenalin to smile and say, "Honey, it's only money. Why don't you replace them?"

Adrenalin gives you super strength to do stuff you normally couldn't do. . .my miracle!