At least we’ll be happy to-day.

 I hadn't been golfing with my best buddie, Calvin, all season. He's been feeling under the weather with a sore elbow for a few weeks now and using this so-called injury as a handy excuse not to come play golf with his old roomie. Poor bubbie. Cry me a river. You and I both know he was just afraid of being humiliated on the golf course by my shining, stunning golf skills. 

So I sent him an email the other day, ordering him to man up already, eat a whole bottle of ibuprofen and come play golf with me! And that's an order! To my immense surprise, he obediently wrote back, "Yes sir. Book a tee time." What he didn't say is that he was already planning to be in Brattleboro anyway. Ha ha. 

So, wearing our very smart and almost-matching coral-colored golf shirts, we headed over to the Brattleboro Country Club to play nine. 

It seems to me that every time I play, a brand-new weakness in my game pops up to bedevil me. Sometimes it's the putting, resulting in my ping-ponging balls to and fro across the expanse of the greens. Sometimes it's the approach shots where I can't hit a second shot more than twenty feet. Sometimes my chip shots go flying, 747-like, across the green, ending up in the thickets beyond. The past couple of outings, though, it's been my tee shots. And this day was particularly dreadful. I muffed my tee shots on the first, second, third, fourth, sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth holes. Other than that a fine day off the tee. 

The second hole, which I hate already, was particularly gruesome. I popped two balls straight up and directly into the pond which sits adjacent, that is, directly next to the tee box. The technical, golf-pro term for such an experience is: utter humiliation. Go ahead. Check it out in the photo below. Laugh all you want, I'm tough, I can take it. 



What a day. Calvin kept muttering reassuring words, even though I know that inside he was laughing his head off at my virtuoso ineptitude. Once he said, "Well, at least you hit it straight." (It had gone about 27 feet.) I wrapped my #3 driving iron around his skinny little throat. 

But other than that (Mrs. Lincoln) I played not bad. Hit some gorgeous irons and a couple of very handsome hybrids, plus a truly spectacular chip shot onto the 9th green. Seriously, it was one for the ages. Calvin exclaimed, "Wow! Perfect! Shot of the day!" And it truly was. About a 40 yard shot from just in front of the raised green, blind, and it landed less than two feet from the hole. Of course, being me, I absolutely had to miss that 2-foot putt for bogey, didn't I? Yes, I did. 

But who cares? We're bad-golfers! That's the truth and we embrace it and own it. In fact, very few people own bad-golfing as proudly as we do. Also,  we looked terribly dashing in our almost-matching coral-colored golf shirts. And that counts for something. 


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