It was a great day to be a student in golf class. Our instructor had told us the previous week that he might be unable to attend and that we would be pretty much on our own.
Shut the front bunker.
I had been giddy all day at work. Not even the horrible fact that our elevator was out of service, requiring me to shuffle up and down three flights of stairs, could keep me from sporting a huge sand wedge of a smile.
Finally, it was go time. I headed toward Forest Akers Golf Course to spank a golf ball or two. For the first time all semester, I noticed the driving range was mostly empty. I glanced over at the putting practice green to see that most of the holes were unused.
I grabbed my putter out of the bag, planted three tees in the ground, and started firing away at the pins.
3 foot = made
6 foot = missed
9 foot = okay, I’ll just start using that further hole as my target.
Putt. Putt. Putt. Make, lip out, what in the world?
I looked at my phone and realized it was 5:27 pm, which gave me three minutes to haul my golf clubs up to the pro shop and receive my instructions. Deciphering instructions on my own would be new territory for me; normally, my wife would read the instructions, and I would assemble the grill’s wheels on the wrong legs. Every grilling adventure after that was a real drag.
“Hi, can I help you?” asked the young clerk behind the counter.
“Hey, I’m in Ron Applegate’s class. Is he going to be here tonight?” I asked.
“Nope. He called in and said he wouldn’t be here. You’re to grab a bucket of balls and hit the driving range.”
Cool. “I get just the one bucket?” asked the happiest student in the world.
“Oh, no” added the clerk. “You can get as many as you want.”
I was grinning so wide, I was afraid I’d start drooling. And at my age, that was a real possibility.
“Anyone else from my class here?” queried the soon-to-be loneliest hacker at Akers.
“Naw, its just you.”
After stretching, I grabbed my pitching wedge, took a few practice swings, and promptly gave the practice green a buzz cut. The huge divot went airborne and landed twenty feet in front of me. It appeared Hurricane Norbert had blown the world’s worst toupe off the world’s worst golfer.
Me.
I quickly glanced down and figured I should leave immediately and go fishing. Why? Spotted a worm.
Shank. Giggle. Shank. Giggle. Consistency was my middle name. It was a good thing my instructor wasn’t here or I would be listening to my first, middle, and last names.
Over to my right, two guys were absolutely crushing their drives; to my left, a middle-aged dude was lofting pitch shots. In between them, a ditch was being dug.
I switched from the pitching wedge and dropped down to my 9-iron, followed by a 7, and then 5-hybrid. Before I knew it, my medium bucket of practice range balls was empty. I looked around and noticed I was still the only duffer present from my class.
I thought about how long I should stay as I strolled to the clubhouse in search of more golf balls to spray across the driving range. To the northwest, the skies were darkening and rain was imminent.
This time, I filled up a large bucket of balls and headed back to my clubs. The old pitching dude had been replaced with two young guys working out their wedges. One of the lads owned a nice, sweet swing, while the other’s golf game resembled mine at his age—not very good. But he was laughing at every missed shot, which is exactly what I do at my age.
Drip.
Drip.
I looked up and “drip,” another raindrop smacked me in the face. Then another hit the top of my hat. I grabbed the bucket, dumped it over, and started swinging like nobody’s business. The pitching wedge turned into a Gatling gun—pow, pow, pow—as I tried in vain to get my swings in before getting my shorts soaked.
“Are you leaving?” One of the young guys asked.
“No, I’m headed to finish the bucket under the storm shelter,” I answered. I took off running with the bag over my shoulder and the half-filled bucket in my hand.
An open spot with the rubber tee on the left side called my name.
“Kraig, c’mere. You haven’t duffed one off me since last fall’s golf class.”
I dumped my bucket and began hitting the yellow orbs off the mat. I had hit, dribbled, duffed, sliced, shanked, driven, lagged, and pitched nearly two hundred yellow practice golf balls. I felt the end was near.
Then I decided to hit an old 3-wood off a rubber tee and mat combo. Got under it a little. A little? It hit the heater that hung overhead.
Clang!
The ball came straight down, hit the concrete floor, bounced right back up, and hit the heater a second time.
Clang!
It sounded like an incoming SCUD missile.
I laughed my fool head off while running to get out of the way. The ball had its share of playing Plinko and dove out front of the storm shelter, landing a mere five feet away.
As the Valedictorian for the day’s golf class, I would have to say I earned an “A” in participation and I needed to pick up a pair of earplugs.
Picturing the incident in the covered driving range with the ball going all over the place. Wish I could have seen the expressions on the faces of the golfers near you who could hear what was going on.