“Golf is a Gentleman’s and Lady’s game.”
I looked around at my twenty-odd fellow PE classmates sitting Indian-style in a semi-circle in front of Coach. It was late spring in Winnsboro Texas. I was twelve.
“Yeah, this is me: mocking.”
Poking my buddy (a lanky, slow-drawling ugly tow head of a boy named Gary) in the ribs with my elbow, whispered, “Golf? What’s he talkin’ ‘bout?”
Coach continued, “Gentlemen, today I am going to introduce you to the greatest sport of all: Golf.”
“Coach done lost his mind,” I remember thinking. “Ever’one knows there ain’t but one sport: Football.”
“Golf,” Coach said, “Is a sport you will enjoy for the rest of your lives. It requires skill, intelligence, decorum, and class. You all will search me out later in life and thank me for this day.”
(Coach was about twenty-nine and was going to night school in Tyler studying to become a physician. He was not your typical Deep East Texas Football Coach. He had a brain.)
We just sat there, dumb-founded, but we, to a boy, respected Coach so we said nothing. Although we did exchange some incredulous, ‘What the hell?’ looks.
Coach took us out to the practice football field and introduced us to “The Greatest Game on Earth.”
I cannot speak for the rest, but I was hooked.
Rode the bus home to Granddaddy that afternoon and announced, “I am gonna be a pro golfer.”
Gran-dad was sober that day (see shot not fired in anger) and said, “Is that a fack? What you know ‘bout golf young’un?”
“I know it is a Gentleman’s game, and I know I am a gentleman.”
“Pshaw Boy! You doan know anything about anything. I know about golf.”
Turns out, my Grandfather did, in fact, know a lot about golf. He had actually almost convinced his neighbor to combine his one hundred twenty adjoining acres with his and build a golf course for Winnsboro. Granddad was somewhat of an entrepreneur, having been in the Grocery Business, the Appliance Store business, the Catfish Restaurant Business (on the Tennessee river), the Worm Ranch business (selling red-worms to the bait shops at the area lakes), and pretty much had failed at all of them.
The following Friday I got off the school bus and noticed two little flags poking up from two little golf greens in our huge front yard. The ‘yard’ was about sixty ‘yards’ deep. There was a green next to the Farm-to-Market road just behind the bar ditch, nestled between the two Crepe Myrtles, and another green just in front of the house. Granddad found me as I was rummaging the fridge for left-over cornbread and sweet milk.
“Boy! I dun built you a golf course.”
“Yes, Granddaddy, I saw.”
He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a golf club and some golf balls.
“Come on, I gonna see how much golfin’ that coach dun taught you.”
Eagerly I followed him out to the front yard. He dropped the balls in front of the porch and handed me the nine iron.
“See if’n you can hit that green yonder.”
I tee’d her up. Took a few practice strokes, remembering to keep my head down, and then I addressed the ball. My back swing was perfect. The downswing weren’t. I hit the ball and watched it sail over the barb-wire fence into the deep pasture.
“Sheeit Boy! You damn sure ain’t no natural.”
He coached me all that afternoon and after I finally managed to at least find the ‘fairway’ he went into the house and got drunk.
For the next several weeks, I played golf on my private course. But I had a major problem: I had no putter. Try putting with a nine iron. Even Phil Mickelson won’t do this. Granddad crafted a putter for me out of some scrap lumber. It was too light, so he drilled it out and poured lead into it. Then it was perfect. My putting skills improved instantly.
Summer now and I was growing unhappy with my greens. I wanted greens resembling those at Augusta. Mine were one notch above cow pasture cut short. I spent a week or two pulling weeds and planting fresh Bermuda grass. My tender mercies eventually produced two greens Jack Nicklaus would have been honored to putt upon. They were smooth, silky smooth, and wonderfully… green. Lush green. In contrast to the rest of the yard (fairway) which was somewhat brown, with some grass burrs serving as hazards. Hazards to my feet. Young’uns in Texas never wear shoes in summertime, but of course you’d know that.
I watered my greens every day. I mowed them every other day. Being a sometime gardener, I loved green things. My golf greens were my pride. I loved the way the Bermuda grass had thrived and how smoothly the golf ball would travel on its way to the pin.
In golf you will make maybe one or two shots in your lifetime that you never forget. I made my first unforgettable shot that summer. I had clipped my ‘Tee Shot’ from the tee next to the road. It had travelled about fifteen feet. I needed a great second shot (my course was of course a par three), to have any hope of making par. (I had fantasy tournaments with imaginary friends in my head—going head to head with Arnold and Jack). My second shot was from about fifty yards. I had a good lie. No grass burrs to distract me. I addressed the ball. Took several looks up to the flag. Did my waggle to set my stance. Backswing. Fore swing. Clean crisp hit. Watched my ball bounce twice on the green and roll straight at the flag. It disappeared.
“Hole in One!” My grandfather shouted from the porch. (Until then, I had not realized I had an audience, or a color commentator, a slightly nose painted color commentator.)
“Yeah!” I shouted. I saw no need to inform him it was my second shot.
One morning about mid-summer I went out to water my greens. There were small holes in the one closest to the house. Holes! Holes the size of tea cups! “Fuckin’ ‘dillo!” was my first thought. My dog Spot would never disfigure my green. Nope. Was an armadillo. No doubt about it. This armadillo had made a fatal mistake.
I was resolved to terminate him.
Don’t Shoot! I am only the Piano-Player
Nope
No Worries at All Friend. None at all. I am still alive. This is good.
I had to re-read my comment, but now I remember.
No, I wasn’t trying to be insulting to anyone. I was just trying to invoke a bit of southern accent and a bit of British. I haven’t commented in forever, but when I did, I treated them all as creative writing, so…no offence was intended. (I realize my blog is titled The Offensive Playbook, but…you’ll have to take my word for it on this.) 🙂
I’m really into history, and I’m constantly learning about the UK and the South, so… yeah.
‘Sides, I enjoy guns too much to “Mess with Texas.” Posted a video on my channel just a few days ago from last year’s bear hunt. I remember you don’t shoot, but…yeah.
Take care. Hope all is well.
Ya know… as I live with a Brit…and as I do revisit comments…. I think you may have been mocking and insulting…. just the Texan in me thinking here (Yes, I know: Texans don’t think)
Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:
Too late for the Masters, but hell! There is still Dan Jenkins and the PGA.
Shakespeare, but then, we have no idea how he sounded.
Hey! I forgot to thank you for your visit and your read of this rather longish post.
I do appreciate your time. Means much to me when ‘Y’all’ actually read.
That is of course tongue in cheek.
Yet, I am very sincere.
Thank you.
🙂
“Posh British”? Or “Shoine y’boots guvnuh?” British?
I was half-asleep. Lucky I got a shot off at all.
Hahahaha
I don’t have a southern accent when I read to myself: it is British.
😉
“Fuckin’ ‘dillo!” 😀
I always wondered about Southern accents: do you guys think with perfect syntax and just speak like Woody Harrelson, or what? Now I know you think exactly the same way!
The only thing I don’t understand is why you didn’t shoot the ‘dillo in the neck then attack it with a shovel? Or….lead-filled wooden putter? I’ll bet even his armour would be no defense against that thing!
I no longer kill innocent critters. In fact, it has been so long since I fried,er…fired a shot in anger. (Save for wanting to back in Iraq).
Yep, Coach did me a huge favor (and I did love my Granddaddy), drunk or sober.
The thing is, we all have memories, but they are never pure (at least in my case–I mean the mean SOB did shoot at me with a deer rifle once).
I love golf. I did play a lot when in San Diego (it was actually part of my cool-down after my workouts in prep for SEAL training the second go – round.)
Oh! Lost my train. What I was going to say, regarding cell phones: in ’86 I went on a photo safari in Kenya. I don’t have the photos any more, but I have the scotch – stained memories…still today.
Down the middle with this one, Marcom!
I salute your gym teacher for ignitin’ your lovin’ for golf and your granddaddy for whippin’ up that two-hole course on your front yard.
You taught that Armadillo but good.
Hey no foolin’ I shot two fox in the backyard off the seventh green at Radisson today. With my iPhone. Post to come tomorrow morning. We spotted a half-dozen of the frisky pups literally dancing on a deck, but by the time I pulled my phone out four were under the deck and two were almost hidden behind a tree.
So, your course. I bet when you get back to your golf, your short game will still be top-flight, because you never forget the touch.
Nice memory, Lance.
No doubt in my military mind!
😉
Ha!
It turned out that I was no gentleman, so maybe I should have gone round dressed as a lady.
That would have ruffled a few feathers in the R&A clubhouse.
‘ungentlemanly conduct’
Oh my fucking god!
(been there too)
But remember:
Golf is a gentleman’s and Lady’s game!
Still laughing!
Thank you very much for making me spill my Stout.
Jeeze!
Thanks for coming by.
Sincerely
I appreciate the comment
(still laughing)
🙂
Brilliant, mate…absolutely brilliant.
I was hooked on your writing as quickly as you were on golf.
Cheers!
(I’m shit at golf, by the way; one of my proudest sporting moments is being escorted from the course at St.Andrews by two committee members for ‘ungentlemanly conduct’)
wow
wow
double woW
Whose Hemingway? 😉
We got lanceRS and Idiots.
Um – I don’t get around much – but occasionally I mange to stop in and have a drink with people who interest me. (hence why i do not get around much? cos not many people interest me – THAT is the booze talking yeah!) Or it may be because I am a little more inclined to be a solitary creature and write a lot?
Um – yip. Dunno – a bit flawed that you are amazed that I read your writing?? But thanks for the love none the less 😀 !
Wow! You read my stuff!
Ya know what?
I love you for that.
(seriously)
Do you suppose Hemingway ever felt this way?
Hey, that kinda rhymes…
Yeah = pretty pleased I came around for a visit 😀 I am not sure which part I laughed the most at – but this kinda is sticking in my head “Sheeit Boy! You damn sure ain’t no natural.”
That’s not the worst of it.
The police report said:
Mr. Mind claimed this:
“He was trying to waste me with his .22! He was gonna waste me! I tried to tell him a mind is a terrible thing to waste, but he just said, ‘stand the hell still; I’m gonna waste yer dumb ass!” Can you imagine? Him calling me dumb? That mindless idiot.”
hahahaha
My mind ran out of the building last week…screaming.
Now I remember this story, LOL! I even commented on it! I’m losing my mind…
You’re welcome, and I won’t be calling PETA for an armadillo. LOL!
Thanks Anna! Yeah, sadly we call ’em Texan Speed Bumps.
Thanks for reading. I am glad I shot that sumbitch. Hahaha. Run tell that to PETA…
Ooops!
Golf? What’s that? Football is King in the south as you know. lol. Your writing is so great! I can just see you out there getting a bead on that sorry armadillo! I only see them dead on the road, or when I run over one. That’s not good on my tires.
Thank you for visiting, reading, and commenting. Enthusiastic feedback like yours is what keeps me writing. Again, Thank you very much.
Lol. Still laughing. I love this!
Thank you damsalinterrupted! You know I love your site. Appreciate your kind words and really appreciate your visiting and reading here.
Good story and well written! I alike your style! Can hear your accent through your words! I’ll have a read through some of your other stories!
hahahah that’s my favorite part! Glad you like it. 🙂
“They put a little flag there to give ya hope!”
Still laughing! Thank you!
Let me know what you think of Robin’s routine, hehe. It’s funny!
Hi Laura. I will certainly look for that Robin Williams bit. Thank you very much for reading and commenting. Please come again and read some more.
I have never scored an eagle, but there is still time….
Cheers,
Lance
I used to love to golf. My finest hour was getting my first eagle on the first par 4 at Spanish Bay on my 50th birthday. True story! Have you ever seen Robin Williams’ routine about golf? Google it on youtube and you will HOWL! I love your story telling btw. 🙂
Hey Carla! Thanks for reading. And thanks for the comment!
Great job Lance…..
Thank you Anonymous. Very happy you enjoyed it.
Laughing out loud Hippie!
Yeah he is playing old show tunes from the Forties. “Play it again Sam.”
Thanks for reading and commenting.
I choose to believe the shot missed, but it scared the armadillo straight and he went on to become the piano player at the clubhouse at Augusta.
Great Lance keep em coming.
Teela, a request: Please Read: “A Coward… “
Desecratin’ Goats?: Bad Medicine, that.
Laughing at your laughing.
Thanks so much for reading.
On my way, Just finished the goat story……funny as shit and terrible at the same time. I had no idea how to blow up a goat, but thanks for the mental image.
Makes me kinda glad I had to eat oyster stew for supper. 🙂
I had intended to wind down after my long day then I saw your post and I can’t sleep for laughing.
My daughter said she wish she didn’t know how to blow up a goat either. 🙂
OK. You said, “…read some more..” take some time (when permitted) and read “Letters From A Southpark Jail” Tis a true story and longish, but no one reads it. I am happy with it, yet it is too long. I think if you can get past the first page, you will like it.
Thank you for whatever you choose to read.
I do love your site, by the way, and I visit it daily.
Cheers,
Lance
🙂
Andy Who? Seriously, I don’t know Andy. Andy Griff? Opey? But, thanks Teela. You have no idea how you just made me smile.
Tis was / is a true story. Growing up with a good natured drunk is not all bad. (Well, mostly it is, but yet, there are some moments of clarity.)
And good intentions.
Thank you for the read and for the comment.
Reading you is like watching Andy….minus the re-runs. I believe I’ll read some more. 🙂