Tiger Woods, I am not

The following are a few golfing scenarios that Kevin has insisted I post for posterity. I want you all to realize that my pride will be taking a hit in the next few lines, as these stories are quite embarrassing. I know that our future children are going to be so mortified by their mother at times like these.

We played in a golf tournament with our friends Leanne and Steve last Friday. In preparation for said tournament, about two weeks ago we went to the local driving range. I haven't hit a golf ball in at least a year, maybe two, so it was a necessity before we wasted our time on the links. At our driving range, you pay for whatever size bucket of balls you want, they give you a receipt with a code on it. You take it to a machine where you place a bucket under a dispenser, input the code and it distributes the appropriate amount of balls.

What's the funniest thing you could imagine happening in this scenario? Maybe the ball machine blows up and rockets golf balls everywhere? Maybe it won't stop belching golf balls into our bucket and people are running up to get free buckets-full? Maybe I forget to put a bucket out at all and the golf balls bounce all over creation, creating a loud and unmanageable ruckus for all the world to see?

Bingo, bango. You've got it.

I didn't realize there was no bucket under the spout, and that Kevin had gone to look for one. As I was punching the last number on that receipt, Kevin exploded with a litany of "JACKJACKJACKJACKJACKJACKJACK!" which I must say was not productive in helping to point out what I was doing wrong. No bucket, out bounced the balls. A nice man brought over his bucket for me and said, "had to learn the hard way, huh?"

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Days later, at our golf tournament, we are playing fairly well for three suckers and a guy who loves golf. I am thrilled because I got a free glove in the pro shop, courtesy of the tournament. No more irritating blisters on my left hand. Bully for me.

Kevin and I are riding our cart out into the rough, to retrieve my ball on the way to his, which we are playing. Instead of just leaning out of the cart and scooping it up, I decide to jump from the cart to pick it up.

Those carts move fast.

Underestimating the speed, I hit the ground and decelerated like a meteor to earth. I managed to do a barrel roll to avoid any serious injury, grass-staining only my new glove and not an inch more, and landing right in front of the cart as Kevin slammed on the brake with a squeak. I jumped up, looking around to see if anyone saw me. The Russian judge gave me an 8. No audience, not even our friends, who I of course had to tell as soon as they joined us.

At dinner later, one of my co-workers who I'm sure will now never forget me came over and asked "Did you jump or did he push you?"

Tiger Woods, I am not.







Edit: Just wanted to say that in addition to acting like a wonk, I also looked like one. I like to call this hairstyle "golfhead." See later posts for an explanation of similar hairstyles, like bushead.