Posts Tagged golf

At the End of the Day

August golf (2) quote

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Ain’t I a Hoot!

 

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This is yours truly, demonstrating how to properly attire one’s beverage of choice while on the links. On this day I’d chosen the lime green Rimz One koozie to keep my Shiner Bock nice and cool.

I have been known to be a bit of a smart aleck now and then. No, no, I understand how most of you will find that hard to believe, but it’s true. Every once in a great while, I slip from my mild-mannered, courteous ways, and say something inappropriate.

 

My golfing buddy Jay Bird has often wandered into the path of one of my salvos, but being a bit of a wise-guy his own-self, he usually walks away none the worse for wear. I got him good one day though.

We were playing a nice course out Kingsland way called The Legends. It’s one of those rolling, wide-open golf courses, where guys like us can usually get back to the clubhouse without hurting anyone or breaking any windows. Jay Bird does not like to play on those courses that have houses lining the fairways; freaks him out worse than a water hazard full of alligators.

So, we were in the middle of one of those wide, rolling fairways, and Jay Bird’s ball had come to rest on a slope. The ball was below his feet, and he was trying to figure out how to set up to hit it properly. He discussed the situation with himself—at length—and when he finally reached the conclusion of the self-seminar, he took a mighty swing and hit the ball about ten feet directly to the right of where he was standing.

He turned, threw out his hands—he said he didn’t mean to throw the club, but I gave him a seven for distance and a eight for form—and commenced to complaining as to how he never could remember how to set up for a shot when the ball was below his feet. As we drove over to get his club, I shrugged and said, “You shoulda asked me.”

“Oh,” he said, as he hopped out of the cart, picked up his club, and started walking back to his ball. It was on level ground this time, and he hit a decent shot that landed just short of the green.

A few holes later, he found himself with another shot, almost identical to the one he’d muffed before. He chose a club, walked over and surveyed the situation, then turned to me and said, “Okay, Mr. Palmer, how am I supposed to set up to hit this shot?”

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Beats me.”

One of his eyebrows shot up high on his forehead, and he said, “Well, you told me I should ask you!”

I smiled and said, “I didn’t say I would know.”

Ain’t I a hoot?

 

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Redneck Economics

There is a group of folks—varied in degrees, I might add—who are commonly known as rednecks. I am among said group, but consider myself to be far to one side of the scale, and at times unrecognizable as one of the members.

One particular facet of the group—mostly men, but I’ve come across a few ladies who fit the bill—believe it is only necessary to work when they run out of money. Typically, they have very few bills—utilities and a cell phone are the most common—and as a general rule they are two to three months behind on the monthly installments for those basic necessities. Another basic to the lifestyle is an older car or pickup—paid for—which is usually uninsured and often broke-down.

The following is a perfect illustration:

redneck-golfer-9688051On one of the many Saturdays my buddy Jaybird and I played golf while I lived in Spicewood Beach, we were accompanied by several of the local rednecks that subscribe to the theory of redneck economics. Jaybird, by the way, is one of the hardest working guys I know. I jokingly called him a slacker one day, and he still holds me in contempt for the remark. Every now and then—out of the blue—he’ll look at me with fire in his eyes and say, “Slacker, huh?”

One of the guys among the seven or eight in our “foursome” was a long-haired fellow in his late forties. Our little golf course was never crowded, so the group could sometimes be more than the prescribed four that applies on a “real” golf course. We had a hard-and-fast rule though: No more than eight to a foursome.

This guy was the epitome of the sub-group I speak of, and while we were standing in one of the fairways, waiting our turn to hit, he sighed and said, “Jaybird, looks like I’m gonna have to git back to work.” It was common knowledge he hadn’t worked for a month or so.

Jaybird sarcastically replied, “Sorry to hear that, bub. How come you have to go back to work?”

The guy turned his head slowly, stared at Jaybird with one eye closed and the other one narrowed to a slit. The expression on his face was one that imparted the idea, he didn’t know if he should fight Jaybird, or leave him alone because he was just plain stupid. Finally, the suspense at a riveting pitch, he spit on the ground then looked back at Jaybird and said—he said this as if he were talking to someone who couldn’t understand English, or the basic principles of life in general–“I’m out of freakin’, money, dumb-ass!”

I cannot explain “redneck economics” any better than that.

 

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It Takes a Lot of Balls…

… to play golf. Especially if you’ve only played twice in the last 12 months or so, and your last round was six months ago. But, one has to put everything into perspective. Ten years ago, “a lot of balls” (I’m talking about losing them) would have been a dozen or so; yesterday, I lost three. So, as I used to enjoy telling my fellow duffers at Spicewood Beach after they’d hit a bad shot, “Well, you’re gettin’ closer!” In other words, what was a bad day yesterday was really good compared to those days of yore.

Son Bill hit the nail on the head last night, after I described my “horrific return to the links” to him. I told him about all the bad shots—like my drive on hole number five that found an unexpected water hazard. I couldn’t see it from the tee box, but there was a pond in the fairway—left over from Monday’s rain—right where my well hit shot landed. Imagine my surprise when a spray of water erupted when my ball came down. And to top it off, the “pond” was just big enough that I couldn’t retrieve the ball. Anyway, after I finished describing the horrors of the day, I finished with, “At least I managed five pars,” and Bill said, “Five pars! That would be considered an outright miracle for me!”

I guess that proves everything’s relative… pun intended. Speaking of relatives…

dont-count-that

 

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Saddle Up Boys!

We lived in a little community on Lake Travis for ten years, from 2000 to 2010. I had a lot of fun there, but looking back, I don’t know how me and the boys stayed out of jail. And so, I was not surprised when one afternoon I walked into the local convenience store and found the sign below tacked to the bulletin board.

Last Round of the Season

 

I used to run with some good ol’ boys; wasn’t that long ago wanted poster

You’d find us mostly on the golf course, not at the rodeo

Made up our rules as we went along; lied and cheated a bit

Golf balls sailed all over the place, but seldom was anyone hit

 

We were never accused of workin’ too much

We just golfed , fished, & grilled, threw horseshoes and such

We’d jump in the lake when it got too hot

Then finish the round in our water socks

 

Yep, I used to run with a mighty  strange crew

Jaybird & Dano just to mention a few

Then life took a turn and I had to be leavin’

I said saddle up boys, it’s the last round of the season

 

Copyright © 2016 C Mashburn

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Oh, Rats!

Oh, rats!

Oh, rats!

The golf course in our community isn’t a bad course, but it certainly isn’t a good one. Due to some past management problems, the course has kinda gone to pot. Actually, the course “was” much to my liking, because it doesn’t get much play (except for the requisite old guys group all courses seem to have that dominate the morning hours every day) and so, I pretty much had the place to myself in the afternoons—especially when it’s hot out. Read the rest of this entry »

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Love and Golf

Just sayin…

love and golf

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