I’d had a long career in violent contact sports, trying my hand at all of the most ruthless and shirking none, including Roller Derby, professional wrestling, naked rugby, and elective politics. I was worn out, beat up, and ready for something a little less masochistic and a tad more genteel. So, I decided to take up golf. As I aged – gracefully, I hoped – I was sure I’d take readily to the ease and elegance of the game’s mechanics, to the beauty and verdurous splendor of its settings, and to the images conjured by the late John Updike when he wrote of the game’s “lush grass and palatial clubhouses of bronzed, trim, grey-haired men swapping swing tips and stock tips in a dappled atmosphere of having it all”. That was me. At this stage of my life, I could have it all. I might not find all of it on the golf course. But I surely could find some of life’s more strategically and intellectually challenging, physically subtle, and existentially enjoyable elements during my peaceful peregrinations on the links.
After some reconnaissance, I manged to find Kettle Hills Golf Course in Richfield, Wisconsin, which is about 40 miles from where I live in Union Church. It’s a little bit of a hike. But I’m thinking, what the hey? I’ll be there in less than an hour. And I’m not likely to bump into anyone I know, just in case I don’t hit ‘em too straight my first time out. Besides, with 45 holes, I’m thinking I can ease myself into the game and save the more challenging terrain for next week.
Once I got to Kettle Hills, I headed immediately for the Pro Shop to select my gear and my attire. Since I happen to sport rather prodigious calves (if I do say so myself), I opted for a pair of natty Payne Stewart knickers, complemented by a pair of equally jaunty argyle leggings. I added a Dry-Excel Elite Performance Wormkiller shirt. And I topped it all off with a Stetson Seagrass Straw Gambler, just to lend a suggestion of rakish debonair to the ensemble. My shoes and my glove, of course, are FootJoy because … well … because FootJoy is #1 in golf. Their website even says so.
I bought a set of Callaway Big Bertha clubs to release my Inner Diablo, hoping it was in no way related to my inner child, since that guy tends to be bratty, particularly in public. One time, I was leaving the Bradley Center in Milwaukee after a Roller Derby event. Some dude comes up and says, “Hey, Buddy. You skate like a girl.” My inner child body-slammed him and was stomping on his throat when the police arrived. After they pulled me away and made sure the guy was okay, the guy said, “Wow, Man. You’re inner child’s kinda strong for his age, isn’t he?” Anyway, I was headed out of the Pro Shop for the locker room, when the kid behind the counter asked me if I needed a cooler. I said, “For what?” He said, “I don’t know. I thought you might want to ice some beer or something and put it on the back of your cart.” So, I grabbed a top-of-the-line Coleman and headed off to don my new duds, grab a cart, and scare up a foursome.
When I went to ask the starter if there were any late-comers around looking for someone to tee off with, he said, “If you don’t mind the fact that those three guys over there have never played before, you might want to join them.” I winked and said, “Why not? Maybe I can give ‘em a few pointers.” Then I walked over to meet my playing partners. It turns out they were triplets, all named Bubba. When I asked if all three of them really were named Bubba, the one with the tattoos on his bald head said, “Yeah, but Momma gave us nicknames – Gomer, Goober, and Gilbert – so we wouldn’t all be able to ignore her at once.” I glanced toward the starter. He shrugged. Then I said, “Well, come on, boys. Let’s see if we can’t find us a few fairways.”
It turned out the Bubba brothers had already gotten their own cart. In lieu of a cooler, they’d opted for a galvanized steel tub, in which they’d already iced a keg of Old Milwaukee (what else?). I’d put two 12-packs of Road Dog Porter in the Coleman. But I suddenly was sensing there might not be a need to share it with my tee-mates. Even though it was only 4:30, we were the last party to tee off that day. So, there was no need to hurry, which turned out to be a good thing because we spent most of the time between the first tee and the fourth green in the woods. By that time, it was too dark to play another hole. I really didn’t think it could take up to 12 hours to play a round of golf. But since it took us four hours to play the first four holes, I figure that must be about right. I’ll have to head for the course a little earlier next time.
Since we’d run out of daylight – but not beer – Bubba suggested we pull off to the side of the fifth tee box and finish what we’d started. Bubba and Bubba agreed. I didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught with a cooler full of beer in my car, so I decided I might was well finish off mine, too. I don’t mean to be immodest when I say I can hold my hops. But these boys were in another league, entirely. While I ended up finishing my two 12-packs, which is no mean feat, those boys drained the entire keg and were talking about making last call somewhere on their way home. By the time midnight rolled around, we were laughing and hugging each other and saying all four of us were brothers. Then I must have blacked out. The last three things I remember are peeing on the ball-washer, staggering back to my cart, and hearing the Bubbas say there were shoving off. After that, I have no idea what happened.
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- Missing Links
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