The Golf Game

We knew we didn’t belong there.

I love to play golf. It’s a relaxing game. Mainly because I don’t care about winning. I care about enjoying the process.

And I don’t keep score. And I might go through three or four golf balls in one game. I know, I know. Some might contest that I’m not playing golf. I’m walloping a white ball around well-manicured grass, which I could do anywhere, not just on a golf course.

A few years ago, my brother-in-law and I got a hankering to play golf. I bought a set of golf clubs at a yard sale for $10. It was a steal of a deal. He already had a set, so we drove to the local hole-in-the-wall golf course to play an easy, carefree game of golf.

We pulled into the parking lot, and I thought we had arrived at a haunted house. The roof appeared to be caving in, and when I stepped onto the porch, I felt the boards bend underneath my weight.

We walked inside and addressed the clerk behind the counter. I stepped around the hole in the floor.

She informed us that there was a tournament at the course that day, and if we weren’t a part of the tournament, we couldn’t play.

“Really?” I asked. “There’s a tournament here?” I was flabbergasted.

We exited the building, thankful it didn’t cave in on us.

“Where can we go now?” I asked my brother-in-law.

“Well, there’s this course on the other side of town.” He said. “I’ve never been there, but I think it’s a little nicer than this place.”

“Well, what wouldn’t be nicer than this place?”

We pulled into the golf course across town.

“Uh, yeah. I think this is nicer.”

We walked past the men in khakis and polo shirts sitting in their golf carts. The golf carts held the Callaway and TaylorMade golf bags filled with the latest clubs. They were wearing their Nike golf shoes. Their hair was combed perfectly, and the smell of Prada cologne wafted through the air. Beautiful homes and condos lined the fairways. We passed a lady who had a quilted golf bag in which the clubs were the color of rose gold.

I wore blue jeans. I didn’t have golf shoes. I hadn’t combed my hair. I had a Faded Glory t-shirt from the local Ross.

I soon realized we were the Beverly Hillbillies amongst the rich and famous of Tulsa, Oklahoma.

We walked through the doors and knew we had made a mistake.

The clerk behind the counter looked at us like we had tainted the air with our presence.

He didn’t greet us. He tilted his head to the side as if to say, “Did you not see the sign for the servant’s entrance in the back?”

“Howdy!” I smiled.

“Yes?”

“We’d like to play some golf.”

“Yes?”

Awkward silence.

“Have you scheduled a tee time?”

“A what?”

His face darkened.

“A tee time.”

“I have no idea.” I looked at my brother-in-law and whispered, “What is that?”

Clerk answered, “You have to schedule a tee time to play here.”

“Well, can’t we just pay right here, right now, and go tee?”

“Sure.” He punched some buttons on the register.

It was expensive.

He gave us the keys to the Bentley Golf Cart. “Please get the cart and get in line.”

We packed our 1960s golf clubs into the cart and pulled down the cart path.

We were tenth in line. Ten minutes later, we hadn’t moved.

“I can’t take this,” I said. “I just want to play golf. I don’t want to be here all day. It should only take two hours to play nine holes.”

We made a U-turn, driving on the manicured grass past all the golfers behind us.

I walked into the clubhouse, to the counter, and he met me there. It’s almost like he knew we’d be back.

“Listen, we’re not golfers.” I started.

“I know.” He interrupted.

“Um, I’m from a small town with a municipal golf course. They don’t have a tee time, and there’s no waiting line.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to ask for our money back. “We just want to get out there and have fun.”

“You can start on the back nine.” He pointed out the front window of the clubhouse. “No one has made it back there yet. There aren’t any houses. And if someone comes up behind you, let them play in front of you. Don’t hold anybody up.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded.

We went to the back nine. Four holes in on a Par 3, I smacked that ball to kingdom come and sliced it but good. And almost hit two ladies on the next hole. I’m talking three feet to spare.

After retrieving the golf ball and receiving a good scolding, I tried to stay away from any humans. We just needed to get through the course and slip away from this place without causing any chaos or being awarded a tar and feathering.

The next time golfed, we drove to the little broken-down shanty with our prehistoric clubs and had ourselves a rip-roaring good time — right alongside our pals, Uncle Jed and Jethro.

to those who just want to have fun,
– Caleb