Golf Gods Are Fickle

Today is Tuesday or Martes (mar-tays), a day not nearly as nifty as Miercoles to say, but one that always contains the promise of golf. We the undaunted but frequently soggy socked did in fact take on the weather, the golf gods and the troll under the bridge at number six in search of golf's promise only to find that golf lies and its promises are rarely kept. To the Old Redneck it said be a good boy, adjust your alignment, have confidence and I will see to it that you don't hook onto the hillside at number two. We the watchers were not at all surprised when the O.R.'s ball curled into the gorse like a missile seeking heat...on three separate occasions. We had all seen our own hopes dashed and promises left unfulfilled periodically throughout the day. To me, Yers Trewly, was promised consistent good play after a first nine in which Woowoo Charly and I carded a team best 32. Somewhere on the next nine, golf gremlins took possession of my body and I began to channel a spastic, uncoordinated, lost soul holding a golf club for the very first time. It wasn't until midway through the third nine when holy water fell from the sky that I was able cast out the beast and reacquire my own swing. Of course the holy water then fell in such abundance that we had to quit for fear of drowning, reasoning that drowning holy is still drowning. The odds of my swing remaining in a state resembling grooved are slim if by slim I mean hahahahahaha. Our one true beginner at the game of golf, RTGFKAR, now hitting the ball on a semi regular basis was presented by golf with its next great dilemma. "If I use this club and hit it well the ball goes too far, but if I use this other club it doesn't get there. What do I do?" We veterans all had the same answer, "beats me." Woowoo Charly had the best day and seems on back patting terms with the golf gods. We suspect bribes or prayers are involved but have no proof. She drove the ball well from the tee and followed by pitching and putting like someone who knows what they are doing. At day's end she retired to Happy Hour convinced that all was now understood and good play would inevitably continue. In other words, golf has set her up for the next big fall. While the Old Redneck had occasion to holler his now patented golf oath, "damn it Larry" and RTGFKAR looked on in amazement as his ball soared poetically o'er the green and wondered aloud, "what the?" and Doc was heard to puzzle in bewilderment, "where did it go, where did it go?, Woowoo Chuck just picked up her tee after another long drive, whistled blissfully and strode up the fairway.

I feel sorry for her already.