Month: July 2006

I had the pleasure of playing golf yesterday with the Chief and Fish! in an outing to celebrate our allegiance to Indiana State University. (Those of you who were asked to participate and turned us down should know that it turned out to be a beautiful day and a great time. So screw you, too.)

Anyway, in the course of conversation, the subject of the Walkabout came up. Turns out there has been next to no response from the field about their attendance this year. In addition, there have been very few deposits turned in to solidify and reserve a spot in the event. Being the Chief, having already made the deposit on the cabin, and being the type of person that doesn’t mince words, Bullseye was heard to remark:

“I’m closing the field at eight men this year.”

So, believing him to be a man of his word, Fish! and I gave him our deposit. We’re in.

Are you?

Because we’d run out of beer and the shed was getting boring, Broken Arrow declares play must resume despite the torrential downpour. On the very next hole, he finds his ball lying in a bunker that is completely covered with casual water, in some places deep enough to drown the Chief. He argues that he should be able to take a drop outside of the bunker, thereby greatly increasing his odds of not being completely covered in grinding wet sand.

Chief Hands Like Feet, being a stickler for the rules, states that Arrow must drop his ball in the bunker, but he can drop it where the water is most shallow, thereby ensuring an outstanding comic moment whence the club comes into contact with three inches of water, a bunch of sand, and (just maybe) the ball.

Who’s right?

In a four-ball match, Talking Bull and Duke, Duke Goose are shooting steely-eyed glares at Running Tongue and Berry Funderwatch. With Talking Bull 10-feet from the hole but lying 8 and Duke 12-feet away lying 3, Talking Bull winks at Duke and says, “Freemspar ober der.”

Having uttered this, he aims toward a spot a foot behind Duke’s ball and away from the hole, in an attempt to have his next stroke aid Duke’s ability to make his par. (Not realizing, of course, that Duke has been drinking regular old Milwaukee’s Best and has been asleep whilst all this was taking place.)

Running Tongue says, “You slimy bull-talking sonofabitch! You can’t do that!”

Hmmm… Is this enough information to determine which teams wins this hole?

With his ball on the green and being his turn to putt, Fish! walks up to the hole, removes the flagstick, and lays it on the ground near the hole. He walks back, takes aim, and – being the supremely confident putter that he is – worries not about hitting the indian logo emblazoned on flag and strikes his putt.

Chief Turtle Thunder, having missed a few Fooks in his time and being unaware of Fish!’s outstanding accuracy with his putter, mistakenly fears that Fish!’s putt might strike the flagstick. He walks over and moves it out of the way.

Skipping Skunk, having just emerged from the woods, shouts “Someone’s getting a two stroke penalty!”

Is he right? And, if so, who?

Things were looking great, your swing was grooving, you’d been drinking “energy beer” for two solid days, and the putter was rolling like a fat girl in flour.

And then the sky opened up. Torrential downpour. Biblical proportions. (Something like Kentucky.)

Unable to see your clubs, let alone hold on to them, you pull out a small towel and wrap it around the grip, offering some degree of stickiness, and play on.

Is this allowed?

So, you’re standing on the 12th green at Otter Creek, playing the round of your life, finally (Silver Elk) in a spot to win the Chief. You’re looking at a 2-footer for a birdie three and Chief-Two-Many-Times-To-Count Spiked Bullseye says, “That’s good.” Since you’re an honorable sort (even though you are sporting a Porn’stache), you decide to putt it out. “It’s for birdie,” says you, “I’d better putt it.”

So you do.

And you miss.

What’s your score? Birdie three or par four?