How Not to Golf

Sarah and I went golfing yesterday at an undisclosed location with 3 other nefarious couples. The infamous eightsome was split by gender and generously lubricated with various cases of beer, home-made margaritas and a magnum of red wine. Light competition amongst the groups added a hint of legitimate effort that was both aided and nullified by the aforementioned open bar.

Aside from a few shining moments, our round was full of standard and inevitable tape-measure slices into the woods etc. usually associated with amateur play. What was extraordinary was that there were very few other golfers on the course at this hour and our behavior quickly deteriorated along the final stretch.

Group hijinks included but were not limited to:
• Heckling each other from tee box to green or vice versa
• Playing extra holes while only paying for 9
• Following up poor tee shots by hitting from the ladies' tees with your pants down (photo)
• Cursing, drinking, rough-housing and generally sophomoric behavior

But the true highlight of the evening came when the driver of my cart (who shall remain nameless since he's someone's grandfather) decided to break a land speed record upon returning to the clubhouse. He has a nifty trick to counteract the cart's speed governer, a built-in safety mechanism. On the many downhills of this mountainous course, he popped the cart into neutral, grinding some gears in the process but allowing the cart to reach ungodly speeds. At a certain point I think I suggested to watch out for the tee boxes, which at this speed resembled launch ramps Evil Knievil would envy. Of course he immediately pegged a tee box and drove diagonally off the side of it. At the base of the awkward incline was a railroad tie used as a curb for the cart path below. As the cart jumped the curb, the right wheels slammed to the ground sending me flailing out of the cart sliding across the paved path and into the grass bank. As I fell, I remember the cart teetering menacingly above me and threatening to roll on top of me. I rolled out of my slide for life, and watched the cart right itself but not without rocking back onto the left wheels for a split second. As the driver tried to regain control he veered sharply to avoid a log fence and almost ran straight into a tree. After regaining his composure, the driver circled back, utterly mortified and simply said "maybe you should drive."


(click image to view larger)

As we sheepishly approached the parking lot, the driver held his hand to his face in shame and embarassment while I laughed hysterically and bled from the wrist, forearm, knee and ankle. He appologized profusely to me and Sarah. I assured him that I could have just as easily procured the injuries biking, but this was a much better story.