It's late and I've got a lot to do tomorrow, so I'll be brief. I had one of the best golf games I've ever had today. After work Cousin Mike, Sebo, Chicken and I took in a round of twilight golf. Not being a great golfer I was more looking forward to spending a little time outdoors, the companionship and drinking beer, not necessarily to the game. Why? Because, to be blunt, I suck at the game of golf. And for the first 6 or so holes this held true, until #7.
I don't know what happened. There are several possible explanations: it was a full moon, I'd drank the magic number of beers and/or I simply ceased caring. Whatever the cause, all of the sudden, I started hitting the ball well. Next thing you know I get my first par of the evening. Ah, who am I kidding, it was the first par I've had in at least two seasons of golf. Next hole? Bogey. #9? Bogey. Then, as darkness gathered, we teed up on 10. Sebo handed out these magic yellow golf balls. They had to have been magic. Not only could you see them better in the reduced light, but I hit mine 300 yards.
I thought surely the twilight shadows were deceiving me. No way could I hit a ball that far. Yet as Chicken and I rolled down the fairway to find our, uh, balls, I spotted mine laying about 50 yards from the pin right smack in the middle of the fairway. One uncharacteristically good chip shot later and I was laying on the green, 15 feet from the cup. I say again, I was laying on the green in two shots on a par four. Start digging the shelter now, people. The apocalypse must be at hand.
As I'm waiting to putt, the phone rings. It's the Big Guy. He wants to know what I'm doing. "Only having the greatest hole of golf in my entire life!", I reply. "I'm getting ready to chip for bird. Want to stay on and listen?" I handed the phone to Sebo who provided color commentary. It was a down hill putt, so I didn't tap it too hard. Turns out I probably should have. I choked, but sank the par.
By now it's dark and Chicken is coming into his own, too. We can't let a little thing like nightfall stop us. When we teed up on 11 there was hardly any light left. We all hit. Everybody crushed their T-shot. Chicken, Mr. "I haven't played golf in years", hit his the furthest. That sandbaggin' little . . . I'm watching you Chicken. Anyway, Cousin Mike buoyed by everyone's sudden good fortune says we're playing on. There's a full moon and if we stay in the fairway, we can easily see where the bright yellow balls land.
It was about this time it occurred to me that the two youngsters running the pro shop were probably ticked that we weren't back. That's the only explanation I have for them turning the sprinklers on. Golf sprinklers put out a lot of water by the way. Sewer water according to Mike and Sebo who decided to drive through one. I couldn't smell it on them, but I guess they could. Chicken and I chose to bug out as soon as the sprinklers came on, so we avoided a similar fate.
Afterward, Sebo and Mike returned to married life and Chicken and I went to watch crappy movies.* Now I must sleep.
*Note: The author in no way, shape or form was insinuating married life is a bad thing. As one who looks forward to joining the ranks of the married very soon, I was merely making statements of fact. Yeah, I need to get to sleep.
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