The day was hot and humid as golfers gathered at the renowned golf links, Walnut Grove Golf Course for the Monday battle of the OBGA (Old Bastards Golf Association) tournament. These are held regularly at the famous links course with high stakes involved.
On this particular day there was the added drama of a tournament within a tournament as two of the embattled contestants were also in competition for the overall club championship (round two). One of these might golfers was yours truly, founder of the OGBA, retired cleric, blogger extraordinaire, and tellers of tales. His opponent was Al the magnificent, powerful striker of balls.
It was an arduous round, fortunately none of the OGBA members had to carted away in ambulances, though many looked weary and bedraggled; however, that is the way they look on most days. Clubs swung mightily, balls quivered in fear of destruction, tees were broken, trees were assaulted, sweat dripped, oaths were sworn, and hills were alive with the sound of the passing of gas.
The league championship combatants were in different flights so the outcome was in doubt until the final beleaguered smacker of balls wobbled into the clubhouse. Each combatant immediately sought out the other and congratulated them upon their victory knowing full well the errant play, bad luck, and all other manner of excuses one tells when found in bad play were delivered. Finally, the august league lead commissioner and owner of the links took both score cards in hand and muttered something about a certain cleric’s inability to make correct handicap dots. (The aforesaid cleric is well known for his mathematical limitations. The count began with holes consistently going to the bloggers opponent. “Al won!” began the league commiss, then, “wait a minute…well I’ll be a monkey’s kinsman…it’s a tie.”
At this point be weary and worn opponent looked at each other in dismay. “What does this mean?” And then fell the mighty axe of the commissioner, “You must have a playoff.” “Oh shucky darns (or words to that effect) muttered the opponents. “We have to put our golf shoes back on, hoist our bags upon yonder carts and carry forth once more into battle?” And so they did.
With equipment loaded back into the cart the opponents stroke mightily toward the first tee. Al flipped the tee which pointed sharply in his direction dictating he must make the first swing. Al addressed the ball, “Yo ball!” Swung his mighty and multicolored driver back and with a great whoosh forward drove it up and over the hill to the center of the fairway 100 yards from the pin. “Holy sheep droppings.” Muttered yours truly. Then I unsheathed my repainted driver of balls (the manufacturer of which is not longer with us in the golf world.) Slowly I brought the 11 degree implement of whackery back and thrust it forward with a small grunt and the ball sailed high and into the middle of the hill where it rolled off the edge of the fairway into the rough. Hmm, perhaps my best shot of the day I thought. Driving up to the ball, gauging the wind (there was none), adjusting the planetary axis, I withdrew my 7 iron and with a mighty swing got my ball on top of the hill even further down the fairway than my mighty opponent’s first shot. “Ha,” I thought, perhaps he will break a leg and I will win.”
Al selected his iron of choice, I suspect a wedge, and with another mighty whack sailed it high into the sky where and then lit softly on the green pin high 20 to 25 yards to the right. I grabbed my sand wedge shaft of destruction and sailed in up into the sky (my ball that is, not myself) where it miraculously lit upon the green, but then fell off short and left of the pin. Being away, I selected my putter which had let me down the entire day and putted my battered ball short of the pin, but within easy striking distance for a good putter, of which I had often proved I am not. Al strode to his ball and promptly putted it to within .653 inches of the hole narrowing missing a birdie. A tap in and it was over. Graciously sulking my way across the green, forgetting to doff my hat to the crowd and cameras, I shook Al’s hand in congratulations. Or did I just grunt? The brain was a bit fried by that time.
We drove back to the clubhouse, Al prepared to doff his hat in victory (there is a lot of doffing of hats in this sport you know ) to the cameras and crowds we assumed would be on hand to witness the mighty exhibition of golfing prowess. Alas all the OB’s had gone home.
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