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Feature Debunking
Golf's Suburban Myth Pretty
good story that's been told by countless
golfers who swear they witnessed it first
hand. No doubt the same guys who swear
they sat first row at Woodstock about this
far from Country Joe McDonald when he
screamed a generation's mantra, "GIMMEE AN
F". Problem is, it's a tall tale. Golf's
version of an urban myth. A suburban myth,
if you will. Never happened. Not
that it doesn't have any basis in truth
whatsoever. It's simply been exaggerated
and embellished in order to make it more
entertaining. Here's
what really happened. I know because I was
there. It was
a beautiful Sunday morning at an equally
beautiful golf course, a day that even the
lousiest of rounds would be forgiven and
forgotten with a glib, "Hey, it's better
than sitting through one of Father Bob's
sermons on coveting your neighbor's stuff
". But in
this particular four-some, there played a
golfer who was anything but forgiving or
forgetting. This jackass, we'll call him
Jon to protect his real identity, was a
miserable sot who's very happiness hinged
on how he played on a given round. Shoot
77 with a birdie on 18 to win the dough,
and this guy was on top of the world.
Never mind that he'd been canned the day
before by his employer for quote, "conduct
unbecoming of a human" end quote. Or that
his attorney called to tell him the
authorities had just seized his home
computer and that there was a problem with
some files found in a temporary internet
folder on his hard drive labeled "Nubile
Nymphs". Not to mention the note his wife
left him that morning, mentioning that she
was running off with that gal down the
street, Big Gloria, to start a new life,
and that their son, Jeffy, wasn't his.
Come to think of it, the kid did bear a
striking resemblance to the
paper-boy. Basking
in the afterglow of good golf trumped
everything. He was fulfilled and bursting
with contentment. Mr. Charlie Potatos was
buying drinks for the house. Conversely,
should he play less than adequately, he
hated not only life itself, but those who
actually enjoyed it. Unfortunately,
the particular Sunday in question, Jon
didn't shoot 77 or birdie the last to
close the Nassau. Nope. What he did, among
other things, was kick, scratch, and shank
his way to a stylish 96, four-jacking the
18th from twenty feet to lose the house
payment, the car payment, little Jeffy's
college fund (I'm sure the paper-boy is
socking plenty away to cover that), and at
least three months worth of future
alimony. That after holing out from the
rough on seventeen for eagle with a dozen
skins on the line with a brand new
Titleist. Unfortunately, Jon was playing
Callaway. Says right there in the Rules of
Golf, playing the wrong ball is loss of
hole. A shame. Oh, and let's not forget
the lob wedge that he thinned a tad from
75 yards shattering the picture window of
a newly erected 2 million dollar trophy
home fifty yards behind the green. While
the owner was standing in the living room.
Naked. Nothing a good plastic surgeon,
with the help of a skilled urologist, and
several hundred thousand dollars, can't
fix. Jon
was pissed. So
with his systolic pressure at well over
200, his brain stem numbed from half a
bottle of Ole #7 and a handful of Vicodin,
and the mental image of his wife
pleasuring Big Gloria, Jon wasn't himself.
He was way worse. After
having one of the bag boys load his clubs
into the trunk, he started the engine, and
sat there in his car. He sat there and
pondered his future, which at this point
clearly included a DUI and bankruptcy. I'm
not gonna lie to ya, the poor guy's
outlook was bleak. Now,
here's where we separate fact from
fiction.. He
didn't toss his bag into a water hazard, a
lame symbolic gesture at best. He wanted
drama, he wanted flair, he wanted
mythology of epic proportion. So he
did what any self-respecting hacker
suffering simultaneously from a
combination of the shanks and yips would
do. He
decided then and there to kill the car.
That's right, I said car. I told you, his
mind was foggy and judgement
impaired. A
watery grave seemed perfect. How about
that little pond off of the par 3 14th
green that cruelly swallowed his first
three tee shots two hours ago on the way
to a smooth 8? And
since it was cart-path-only that day,
being the law-abiding golfer he was, he
kept it on the path. A gun-metal gray
Honda Accord, I believe. Floored it from
the 16th tee box, careening past startled
golfers and sleeping marshalls, till he
found the bottom of the pond. Which didn't
take long because the pond was only about
four feet deep. Not deep enough to cover
the Honda. It wasn't the final picture he
had in mind, of the vehicle listing slowly
to the left before disappearing in the
cold dark abyss, in a small whirlpool of
bubbles, a la the Titanic, but it'd have
to do. After
extricating himself from the carnage, Jon
waded/stumbled to shore, walked to the
clubhouse, sloshed into the bar, an
ordered a double. Man, did he feel
better. It was
just about then that one of the fellows
he'd played with earler in the day, walked
up, gave Jon the once over without saying
a thing, and then casually remarked that
the forecast for their game tomorrow was
another beautiful day. Without
so much as the slightest hesitation, Jon
picked up a cell phone on the bar, not
his, and got the number of a tow truck
service. An
hour later, the tow truck was winching the
Honda out of the pond, surrounded by a
gaggle of curious on-lookers, including
the Superintendant, Pro, two cops, and an
only slightly drier and more sober
Jon. With
much aplomb, Jon opened the trunk, removed
his clubs, got in the driver's seat, and
to a smattering of applause, started that
car. Those Japanese build darn reliable
machines. By now
you know the rest. With his beloved clubs
safe and sound, he drove that Honda
directly back into the pond, did not pass
go, did not collect two hundred dollars.
Played the next day, shot 80 getting up
and down on the 18th from heinous fescue,
to win a hundred bucks or so. Happy as a
pig in poop. Sometimes
truth is stranger than fiction. It's
up to you to determine which is
which. But
I'll tell you one thing, my version'll
hold up under oath. Actually, it
did. I
should know. I was there. Jon
Lawrence is heard Sunday mornings on 850
KOA's "In the Fairway", has completed
anger management class not once, but
twice, and can be counseled
atjonnl@comcast.net |
