A GOOD WALK SPOILED

A good walk spoiled. So said Mark Twain of golf. You know, I tend to agree. I am completely inept at the game, it appears. I played 18 holes today with a couple of buddies--they were downing the brews and I was sipping my Sprite--and I ended up shooting a 121. Palendromically, that's a good score. Unfortunately, golf is not a sport that awards points for quirky linguistic patterns. "Madam I'm Adam" won't win me any tournaments, unfortunately.

We rented those electrical golf carts for the round and, though the cart had a "roof," I still ended up burning the shit out of the top of my head. Though it was entirely by design--I wanted color on my head--I think I'm going to have to avoid the razor on top of my head for a few days. Hey, taking showers will be painful enough! So...for the next few days, I may have to do my best to channel Pig Pen from the "Peanuts." I shall walk about town, my cartoon smell-waves preceding both me and my reputation.

One thing of note--beyond my horrendous score--took place during the round. My friend was driving the golf cart, a few beers in, and he shot across the green, trying to yank the pin out of the hole, before careening down the bumpy path towards the 18th tee, his buddy's cart his target. Wham! He hit it hard. Which is entirely understandable, considering he hadn't even attempted to brake.

A man on a nearby green decided to get all tough in front of his boy: "Hey, buddy," he said. "What the hell are you doing? That's my cart."

My friend turned around and looked at him. "Your cart? I thought it was Doug's cart."

The man advanced to about 25 yards from us. Even the birds had stopped chirping. The tension was greasy. "No, it's mine. This is my club. Those carts cost about $6000. Do it again," he warned, his chest puffing out like that of a blowfish. "Do it in front of me."

Tough Guy Alert!

My friend looked bemused. "Nothing happened to it. I didn't know that it was your course. It's fine," he said.

The man on the green wasn't placated. "Do it again and I'll have you kicked off this course."

"We're on the 18th hole," my friend mumbled.

The man stood and stared. "What's that?"

"Nothing. The cart's fine. Don't worry about it."

There had been a bit more bravado and bluster and then the man on the green had gathered up his mute son and they had gotten into their little cart and sputtered off, sparing a Look of Death towards my two friends and me. I distinctly felt a warm slide of poop puddle in my SockAndal. I was that terrified. What would have happened if the big tough guy had made good on his threat of --perhaps--a physical confrontation? One potbellied man in his late-40s against three men in their 30s? It would have been a disaster! We would have run home with our tails between our legs, I tell ya!

Once the dude had motored off, it seemed as though my friends found more of their tongues. They berated him and said things like they would have loved to see him try...things like that. Typical fightin' words.

Here's where I stood (and stand) on the situation: Golf is supposed to be a genteel game. It has been a rich-man's game and, though that is bad in its own right, there are certain things that are expected of a golfer. Things like repairing divots and ball-marks and raking the traps after one shoots from the sand. Also included in that list should be basics like not pissing on the fairway and not ramming, pell-mell, into the back of another golf cart.

My friend didn't seem to understand that. "Fucking gentlemen's game," he sneered. "I paid my forty bucks for this shitty golf course. Why does it matter what I do? People should mind their own business. This wasn't his cart, anyway. What the hell was he talking about? And who gives a shit if I take a leak in public? You don't like it, don't look!"

"Well," I said, "that one guy who told you that there was a bathroom right over there was playing with his woman. Maybe he didn't want her seeing that."

"Elitists," he reiterated.

He is my friend, sure. But sometimes he gets a thought in his head and it's like trying to pull Excalibur out of the motherfucking rock to get him to see another side of the situation. I was slightly--not too much, but slightly--embarrassed by his actions. I was always brought up to have respect for the sport. That's not too crazy, is it?

That being said, the guy who was acting like a tough mofo? Please. Save the words. Unless you're willing to back them up, don't advance on a situation like you're Rocky-fricking-Balboa.