This is WAY Beyond STUPID! HAHAHAHAHA! Armadillos Should Not Golf–ReDux’d & Re-Writ

“Golf is a Gentleman’s and Lady’s game.”

I looked around at my eleven-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.

Poking my buddy (a lanky, slow-drawling ugly, slightly buck-toothed dirty-blond towhead of a boy named ‘Gary’) in the ribs with my elbow I 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,” he went on, “Is a sport you will enjoy for the rest of your lives. It requires skill, intelligence, decorum, determination, concentration, and class. You all will search me out later in life and thank me for this day.”

Coach was about twenty-nine and was attending night school in Tyler, taking ‘Pre-Med’ classes. One day he would change his name from ‘Coach’ to ‘Doctor Coach.’

Towering over us, standing at least six foot and change, lean and muscular, dark short-cropped hair, square jawed and possessing a cross between a serious at times, and a jovial at other times demeanor, that was ‘Coach.’

Charismatic and ‘Honorable’ would be the two words I would choose if given only two to describe him.

He was not your typical Deep-East-Texas Football Coach.

He had a brain.

‘Coach’

In Reality, this photo is of George Gankas, the famous golfing coach, but “Our Coach” looked very much like Ol’ George here

***

We just sat there, dumb-founded, but we, to a boy, genuinely loved, admired, and respected Coach.

So we listened and 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 from the ‘get-go.’

Rode the bus home to Granddaddy that afternoon and announced, “I am gonna be a professional golfer.”

Grandaddy was sober that day

(See This Post)

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. Once he had actually almost convinced his neighbor to combine his one hundred twenty adjoining acres with his own one hundred and build a golf course for Winnsboro.

Granddaddy 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 all the bait shops at the area lakes), and pretty much had failed at each and every one of them.

Yet, he NEVER gave up. I did admire those few-of-a-kind great traits he possessed: Eternal Optimism, No Fear, and Dogged Determination.

That’s Granddaddy on the right (Duh), many years later. Me, the ‘Handsome’ (Ha! Ha!) Sailor-on-Leave, and Grandmother on the left. Winnsboro, Texas, circa 1987

***

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.

Granddaddy 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 a 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 every day on my private course. But I had a major problem: I had no putter. Try putting with a nine iron. Even Lee Trevino won’t attempt to do this.

Granddaddy crafted a putter for me out of some scrap lumber. It was too light, so he drilled the head out and poured molten lead into it. Then it was perfect.

My putting skills improved dramatically.

Summer now and I was growing dissatisfied 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. Lushly green. In stark contrast to the rest of the yard (fairway) which was somewhat brown, with some grass burrs serving as natural hazards–hazards to my feet.

“OUCH DAMNIT!”

Young’uns in Texas never wear shoes in summertime, but of course you’d know that.

My ‘Fairway’ Resembled This:

My ‘Golf Green’ Resembled This:

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, maybe 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 the likes of Arnold and Jack and Lee).

My second shot was from about fifty yards. I had a good lie.

I said to my imaginary playing partner of the day, “Hey Jack, stand back and watch this. You may learn something.”

(Only ‘Golfers’ will understand this, and I am not ‘writer enoughto explain it to ‘not golfers’, but every once in a great while a golfer can visualize a future shot. It plays in his head like a ten second movie clip. And it is a ‘very good ten second movie.’)

One such movie was playing on the inside-my-head-screen as I approached my ball.

No grass burrs to distract me. I addressed the ball. Took several looks up to the flag. Did my ‘waggle’ to set my stance.

“The Waggle”

Video Content Credit: manoloteachesgolf

Backswing. Fore swing. Clean crisp hit. Watched my ball bounce thrice on the green as it rolled straight at the flag.

Then disappeared!

“Hole in One!” My grandfather shouted from the porch. (Until then, I had not realized I’d had an audience, or a color commentator, a slightly nose-painted-red ‘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.

With extreme prejudice.

That night I dragged my sleeping bag onto my belov’d green and with my .22 rifle under my arm I lay in wait.

Fell asleep on watch around midnight. Woke up with the sun to discover more holes in my green. Further enraged now.

“Of Course You Realize This MEANS WAR!”

Made repairs to the ‘dillo divets and played a few rounds that day. Close to sunset, I downed some strong black coffee and filled a thermos with more.

Camped out again on my green. Feigning sleep, I waited with my rifle and a flashlight. Sometime in the night, I heard him. Grubbing for grubs on MY Green.

The moon was half. I did not need the flashlight. I spied him on the edge of my green, mockingly desecrating my pride and joy.

Ever so slowly I turned toward him while resting on my side cradling my rifle. Took aim and shot him square in his armadillo ass. Bam! “Now run tell that, fuckin’ ‘dillo!”

He did (run) and I am quite certain he did tell all his ‘dillo friends’ not to fuck with my golf course. Ever again.

I suppose he died, or not. Actually, I probably only clipped him, but that was sufficient; he never came back, and I continued happily along with my golfing career.

It would be five years before I actually set foot on a ‘for real golf course’, but when I finally did, I impressed the hell outta my peers with my ‘short game’, as that was all I had known, yet damn good at it, I was.

Took me two more years to learn how to ‘drive’ golf balls (and cars and trains, and hay trucks, and cheerleaders, and majorettes, and such sundry other things.)

***

But Coach was right: I wish I could find him now to tell him just how right he was, per his prophesy.

****

Added Bonus Value:

Robin Williams on Golf

I thought it might be fun to drop in some of the commentary generated by the origional version of this story.

So here ya go!

Below!

The Offensive Playbook May 20, 2014 at 16:24

“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!

LAMarcom May 20, 2014 at 16:25

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.

😉

idiotwriter April 15, 2014 at 16:24

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.”

LAMarcom April 15, 2014 at 16:27

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…

idiotwriter April 15, 2014 at 16:37

Whose Hemingway? 😉

We got lanceRS and Idiots.

Um – I don’t get around much – but occasionally I manage 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 😀 !

****

Looks like you’ve reached The End.

Thank you for sticking with this long journey.

Here’s You Reward:

Vid Cred: Weebl’s Stuff

Slightly Updated: “Officer, I did NOT Fall OFF that Wagon; I was pushed. Arrest the push-er, not the push-ee.” Or, “I got tired of waking up on the freeway driving ninety.” Or, “This Post is Not the Post You Were Looking For…”

New shit:

Fuk it!

(I’ll edit it later)

Goddamn it!

Git off my back!

Author’s Note (at the beginning… Yes. Yes. Fucking YES!! I know! Not Great Form!)

Fuck it!

Author’s Note:

Recent Au Courant events (Afghanistan) are bumming me out.

Charlie Wilson: “These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world… and then we fucked up the endgame.”

Nuff said?

“Yes Lance. Now STFU and write.”

“Okay.”

Okay, but…

One last ed. note:

This lame-ass post has a lot (even by my sub-standard standards)

A lot of attached… Lancelot Links and Vids.

It is highly (and drunkenly) recommended you ‘experience them all’ to get the

‘Full Benefit’

Jes sayin…

***

Now I know.

Now I know why

Now I know all the reasons whey–why

(“Lance! There is ALWAYS a Fucking Song! Ain’t they?!)

(Fuck off! Voice in my head)

And fuck you too Muse!

Run tell all that!

****

Now I know why I get drunk

Now I know why I used to stay drunk

Now I know why it is a good thing

And good for one

To stay drunk

Simple logistics and meta-physics:

To avoid the hangovers!

“The hairs of some dogs”

As it were

The hair of Man’s Best Friend!

For lack of a reason

Hairs of dogs are in season

***

Time of The Reason-Season

“What’s your name? Who’s Your Bag-Daddy??”

“Me! C’est Moi!”

(Asshole!)

Street Cred for Vid: andrew91118

Tis reason enuff.

To dip snuff.

(And I love dogs)

Amen

P.S. This is a ‘temporary’ affliction. It too shall pass.

“How do you know this Doctor Marcom?”

“Because I have been to Drunken Med School Grasshopper.”

This Computer Has Been Drinking (Not Me)

Street Cred for Vid: MasterBiblicalMemory

***

“But, Dr. Marcom, none shall pass. Pass out perhaps, but ‘pass’? Naw.”

None shall pass thru this life unscathed.

“Oye vay of little faith!”

“Dr. Marcom, you are stupid.”

*heavy sigh*

“Some people, you just cannot reach.”

What we have here…

Communication

***

Cynthia-The-Housekeeper and my Only BFF here in Commerce Amerika…

She.

She is ‘on to’ me.

She knows me.

She came to my door.

Asked me if I wanted to strip my bed.

Freudian Slip?

(Tuesdays here at Lion’s Lair are ‘Strip Yer Bed-Sheets Day)

I replied,

“No Ma’am; I’m good, but thanks for askin'”

She gave me that ‘Black-Woman-All-Knowing-Look’

That ‘Look’

That look that telegraphs.

Telegraphs “I know you’ve been drinking again”

My Tell-All, End All Tell.

Tis a curse!

I have no skill at poker.

Nor do I possess a poker-face.

My Cynthia asked over those “I already know the answer” eyes:

“You Okay?”

“Yep. I’m okay,” I lied.

“I’m watching you,” she said.

“I know you are Honey, and thank you for that,”

I replied.

As she walked away, I said to her moving away from me back,

“I love you.”

She said over her shoulder,

“I love you more. Catch ya later Alligator!”

(Her favorite catch-all, end-all phrase. I never ask why. Why she likes it. She just likes it. And that is reason enough for me. Because I am in love with her. Love is just that way Y’all. It works in those mysterious ways. Kinda like the Invisible Spaghetti-Man-in-the-sky. Man. Oh man!)

As soon as I shut the door I heard my Motorola Phone speaking to me:

“Hello Moto!”

(Note to self: ‘Change name to ‘Moto.’)

“Fuck you Moto!” I said.

Then I did something very very uncharacteristic:

I answered the damn phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Rance Marcom?’ (Heavy Indian accent)

“No.”

“I need to speak Rance. Is he there?”

“Are you from India Mister Moto?”

“I from Capitol One.”

“No. I think you’re from India.”

“Mister Rance Marcom?”

“English ain’t yer first language is it? I just told you, ‘Mistah Rance’ ain’t here.”

“I need speak to Mister Rance Marcom.”

“Sorry to say, he is in Kabul at this moment getting his ass shot at.”

Mister Moto / Capitol One hung up on me.

Cannot imagine why.

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does to me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

I’ll be fine.

***

The (Still) Living

END

*static on radio*

“Houston. We have a problem…”

TBC…

j’espere

(Dat’s France-ish for ‘j’espere’.  Google it! Yu lazy-fair mo-fo’s)

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

“Objection Your Honor! The Witless Witness is Inebriated!”

“Sustained. Mister Moto, continue, but sobriety is the soul of wit. Please take some effort to remember that.”

“Yer honor…”

“Boom! Thirty Years! No Beers!”

It was at this point, Yoda spoke to me:

“Fucked you are.”

“Thanks for that Yoda.”

“Officer, I did NOT Fall OFF that Wagon; I was pushed. Arrest the push-er, not the push-ee.” Or, “I got tired of waking up on the freeway driving ninety.” Or, “This Post is Not the Post You Were Looking For…”

Fuk it!

(I’ll edit it later)

Goddamn it!

Git off my back!

Author’s Note (at the beginning… Yes. Yes. Fucking YES!! I know! Not Great Form!)

Fuck it!

Author’s Note:

Recent Au Courant events (Afghanistan) are bumming me out.

Charlie Wilson: “These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world… and then we fucked up the endgame.”

Nuff said?

“Yes Lance. Now STFU and write.”

“Okay.”

Okay, but…

One last ed. note:

This lame-ass post has a lot (even by my sub-standard standards)

A lot of attached… Lancelot Links and Vids.

It is highly (and drunkenly) recommended you ‘experience them all’ to get the

‘Full Benefit’

Jes sayin…

***

Now I know.

Now I know why

Now I know all the reasons whey–why

(“Lance! There is ALWAYS a Fucking Song! Ain’t they?!)

(Fuck off! Voice in my head)

And fuck you too Muse!

Run tell all that!

****

Now I know why I get drunk

Now I know why I used to stay drunk

Now I know why it is a good thing

And good for one

To stay drunk

Simple logistics and meta-physics:

To avoid the hangovers!

“The hairs of some dogs”

As it were

The hair of Man’s Best Friend!

For lack of a reason

Hairs of dogs are in season

***

Time of The Reason-Season

“What’s your name? Who’s Your Bag-Daddy??”

“Me! C’est Moi!”

(Asshole!)

Street Cred for Vid: andrew91118

Tis reason enuff.

To dip snuff.

(And I love dogs)

Amen

P.S. This is a ‘temporary’ affliction. It too shall pass.

“How do you know this Doctor Marcom?”

“Because I have been to Drunken Med School Grasshopper.”

This Computer Has Been Drinking (Not Me)

Street Cred for Vid: MasterBiblicalMemory

***

“But, Dr. Marcom, none shall pass. Pass out perhaps, but ‘pass’? Naw.”

None shall pass thru this life unscathed.

“Oye vay of little faith!”

“Dr. Marcom, you are stupid.”

*heavy sigh*

“Some people, you just cannot reach.”

What we have here…

Communication

***

Cynthia-The-Housekeeper and my Only BFF here in Commerce Amerika…

She.

She is ‘on to’ me.

She knows me.

She came to my door.

Asked me if I wanted to strip my bed.

Freudian Slip?

(Tuesdays here at Lion’s Lair are ‘Strip Yer Bed-Sheets Day)

I replied,

“No Ma’am; I’m good, but thanks for askin'”

She gave me that ‘Black-Woman-All-Knowing-Look’

That ‘Look’

That look that telegraphs.

Telegraphs “I know you’ve been drinking again”

My Tell-All, End All Tell.

Tis a curse!

I have no skill at poker.

Nor do I possess a poker-face.

My Cynthia asked over those “I already know the answer” eyes:

“You Okay?”

“Yep. I’m okay,” I lied.

“I’m watching you,” she said.

“I know you are Honey, and thank you for that,”

I replied.

As she walked away, I said to her moving away from me back,

“I love you.”

She said over her shoulder,

“I love you more. Catch ya later Alligator!”

(Her favorite catch-all, end-all phrase. I never ask why. Why she likes it. She just likes it. And that is reason enough for me. Because I am in love with her. Love is just that way Y’all. It works in those mysterious ways. Kinda like the Invisible Spaghetti-Man-in-the-sky. Man. Oh man!)

As soon as I shut the door I heard my Motorola Phone speaking to me:

“Hello Moto!”

(Note to self: ‘Change name to ‘Moto.’)

“Fuck you Moto!” I said.

Then I did something very very uncharacteristic:

I answered the damn phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Rance Marcom?’ (Heavy Indian accent)

“No.”

“I need to speak Rance. Is he there?”

“Are you from India Mister Moto?”

“I from Capitol One.”

“No. I think you’re from India.”

“Mister Rance Marcom?”

“English ain’t yer first language is it? I just told you, ‘Mistah Rance’ ain’t here.”

“I need speak to Mister Rance Marcom.”

“Sorry to say, he is in Kabul at this moment getting his ass shot at.”

Mister Moto / Capitol One hung up on me.

Cannot imagine why.

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does to me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

I’ll be fine.

***

The (Still) Living

END

*static on radio*

“Houston. We have a problem…”

TBC…

j’espere

(Dat’s France-ish for ‘j’espere’.  Google it! Yu lazy-fair mo-fo’s)

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

“Objection Your Honor! The Witless Witness is Inebriated!”

“Sustained. Mister Moto, continue, but sobriety is the soul of wit. Please take some effort to remember that.”

“Yer honor…”

“Boom! Thirty Years! No Beers!”

It was at this point, Yoda spoke to me:

“Fucked you are.”“Thanks for that Yoda.”

Armadillos Should Not Golf–ReDux’d & Re-Writ

“Golf is a Gentleman’s and Lady’s game.”

I looked around at my eleven-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.

Poking my buddy (a lanky, slow-drawling ugly, slightly buck-toothed dirty-blond towhead of a boy named ‘Gary’) in the ribs with my elbow I 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,” he went on, “Is a sport you will enjoy for the rest of your lives. It requires skill, intelligence, decorum, determination, concentration, and class. You all will search me out later in life and thank me for this day.”

Coach was about twenty-nine and was attending night school in Tyler, taking ‘Pre-Med’ classes. One day he would change his name from ‘Coach’ to ‘Doctor Coach.’

Towering over us, standing at least six foot and change, lean and muscular, dark short-cropped hair, square jawed and possessing a cross between a serious at times, and a jovial at other times demeanor, that was ‘Coach.’

Charismatic and ‘Honorable’ would be the two words I would choose if given only two to describe him.

He was not your typical Deep-East-Texas Football Coach.

He had a brain.

‘Coach’

In Reality, this photo is of George Gankas, the famous golfing coach, but “Our Coach” looked very much like Ol’ George here

***

We just sat there, dumb-founded, but we, to a boy, genuinely loved, admired, and respected Coach.

So we listened and 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 from the ‘get-go.’

Rode the bus home to Granddaddy that afternoon and announced, “I am gonna be a professional golfer.”

Grandaddy was sober that day

(See This Post)

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. Once he had actually almost convinced his neighbor to combine his one hundred twenty adjoining acres with his own one hundred and build a golf course for Winnsboro.

Granddaddy 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 all the bait shops at the area lakes), and pretty much had failed at each and every one of them.

Yet, he NEVER gave up. I did admire those few-of-a-kind great traits he possessed: Eternal Optimism, No Fear, and Dogged Determination.

That’s Granddaddy on the right (Duh), many years later. Me, the ‘Handsome’ (Ha! Ha!) Sailor-on-Leave, and Grandmother on the left. Winnsboro, Texas, circa 1987

***

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.

Granddaddy 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 a 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 every day on my private course. But I had a major problem: I had no putter. Try putting with a nine iron. Even Lee Trevino won’t attempt to do this.

Granddaddy crafted a putter for me out of some scrap lumber. It was too light, so he drilled the head out and poured molten lead into it. Then it was perfect.

My putting skills improved dramatically.

Summer now and I was growing dissatisfied 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. Lushly green. In stark contrast to the rest of the yard (fairway) which was somewhat brown, with some grass burrs serving as natural hazards–hazards to my feet.

“OUCH DAMNIT!”

Young’uns in Texas never wear shoes in summertime, but of course you’d know that.

My ‘Fairway’ Resembled This:

My ‘Golf Green’ Resembled This:

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, maybe 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 the likes of Arnold and Jack and Lee).

My second shot was from about fifty yards. I had a good lie.

I said to my imaginary playing partner of the day, “Hey Jack, stand back and watch this. You may learn something.”

(Only ‘Golfers’ will understand this, and I am not ‘writer enoughto explain it to ‘not golfers’, but every once in a great while a golfer can visualize a future shot. It plays in his head like a ten second movie clip. And it is a ‘very good ten second movie.’)

One such movie was playing on the inside-my-head-screen as I approached my ball.

No grass burrs to distract me. I addressed the ball. Took several looks up to the flag. Did my ‘waggle’ to set my stance.

“The Waggle”

Video Content Credit: manoloteachesgolf

Backswing. Fore swing. Clean crisp hit. Watched my ball bounce thrice on the green as it rolled straight at the flag.

Then disappeared!

“Hole in One!” My grandfather shouted from the porch. (Until then, I had not realized I’d had an audience, or a color commentator, a slightly nose-painted-red ‘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.

With extreme prejudice.

That night I dragged my sleeping bag onto my belov’d green and with my .22 rifle under my arm I lay in wait.

Fell asleep on watch around midnight. Woke up with the sun to discover more holes in my green. Further enraged now.

“Of Course You Realize This MEANS WAR!”

Made repairs to the ‘dillo divets and played a few rounds that day. Close to sunset, I downed some strong black coffee and filled a thermos with more.

Camped out again on my green. Feigning sleep, I waited with my rifle and a flashlight. Sometime in the night, I heard him. Grubbing for grubs on MY Green.

The moon was half. I did not need the flashlight. I spied him on the edge of my green, mockingly desecrating my pride and joy.

Ever so slowly I turned toward him while resting on my side cradling my rifle. Took aim and shot him square in his armadillo ass. Bam! “Now run tell that, fuckin’ ‘dillo!”

He did (run) and I am quite certain he did tell all his ‘dillo friends’ not to fuck with my golf course. Ever again.

I suppose he died, or not. Actually, I probably only clipped him, but that was sufficient; he never came back, and I continued happily along with my golfing career.

It would be five years before I actually set foot on a ‘for real golf course’, but when I finally did, I impressed the hell outta my peers with my ‘short game’, as that was all I had known, yet damn good at it, I was.

Took me two more years to learn how to ‘drive’ golf balls (and cars and trains, and hay trucks, and cheerleaders, and majorettes, and such sundry other things.)

***

But Coach was right: I wish I could find him now to tell him just how right he was, per his prophesy.

****

Added Bonus Value:

Robin Williams on Golf

I thought it might be fun to drop in some of the commentary generated by the origional version of this story.

So here ya go!

Below!

The Offensive Playbook May 20, 2014 at 16:24

“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!

LAMarcom May 20, 2014 at 16:25

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.

😉

idiotwriter April 15, 2014 at 16:24

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.”

LAMarcom April 15, 2014 at 16:27

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…

idiotwriter April 15, 2014 at 16:37

Whose Hemingway? 😉

We got lanceRS and Idiots.

Um – I don’t get around much – but occasionally I manage 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 😀 !

****

Looks like you’ve reached The End.

Thank you for sticking with this long journey.

Here’s You Reward:

Vid Cred: Weebl’s Stuff

Daily Lenny: White Collar Drunks

Hey Kids!

Here is your Daily Lenny

“Liberals can understand everything but people who don’t understand them.”

― Lenny Bruce

Thank You for Listening.

Comments? Line forms to the Right

The coolest man around (Town)

All are welcomed and all will be responded to…

“Lance! Never end a sentence with a preposition!”

“Why not?”

More Lenny Here:

http://texantales.com/category/lenny-bruce/

 

Lance, You Lie: Chapter Five

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four

Continuing Our Mission To Visit Joe

So, we snuck all the way back down to the storage room and just as we had finished getting ‘dressed’, we got busted. Appearing in front of us, blocking the exit, was this security guard, a very bulky and tall black man.

“What’re you boys doing in here?”

“Uh…we’re here to see our friend.”

“Your friend ain’t here.” (This much I knew)

“Uh…we got lost.”

The fact that we were dressed as hospital orderlies didn’t seem to amuse him. I deduced this instinctively and immediately. I decided “The Truth” would be our only best hope.

I explained we just wanted to come visit our friend who had been very sick and that, yes, we had been drinking a little, and yes we are sorry, but could you please take us to his room so we can say hello and then split, quietly.

Thank God he quickly developed a sense of humor and he did exactly that. He took us up to the room, left, and while we were visiting with Joe, the guard apparently found our bottle of wine in the storage room and actually brought it to us! I almost fell out of the chair I was sitting in. He brought us that wine. Unbelievable.

We stayed way too long in Joe’s room and realized it was now daylight when the nurse came in. We were just as drunk as when we had arrived hours earlier, and now didn’t have the dark of night conceal our escape. This was a bad situation. Our friendly night shift security guard was long since gone and we had to pull ourselves together long enough to get away without being arrested. In spite of all that, it really should have been easy.

But it wasn’t.

We left Joe’s room and did just fine until we exited the elevator on the ground floor. There were people everywhere! Kim decided a song was in order, so as I was helping him walk, our arms over each other’s shoulders, best-buddy-like, he burst into song. Perfect. I couldn’t make him shut up. People, who up until that point had been ignoring us, starting staring, pointing, and laughing. I hustled us out of there as quickly as possible, but I was certain there must have been someone who was not particularly amused by our antics. The police were bound to be summoned.

Once we got outside (mind you, we were dressed in gym shorts and t-shirts from the night before and really stuck out amongst all the hospital staff coming in from the parking area dressed for respectable work), I stopped holding onto Kim and turned to look for our car, actually Joe’s car, a Monte Carlo. We had ‘borrowed’ it while he was near death in the hospital; didn’t think he would be needing it anytime soon…if ever.

I could not for the life of me spot the damn car now that the parking lot was full and of course I couldn’t remember anything about where we had parked the night before. I turned back to ask Kim if he remembered, but he was gone!

I knew I had to get away from the entrance to the hospital quickly and find the damn car. I started walking all around the perimeter of the parking lot, looking now simultaneously for the car, Kim, and the cops. I turned a corner and saw a security guard. He spotted me and began pointing and yelling. I lit out in the direction I had come from and was really hauling ass. Directly in front of me was Kim, running just as full-force but directly toward me. And he was Naked!

He continued to head toward me, laughing and almost tripping on something as he ran. I had lost my sense of humor and did nothing to acknowledge his impromptu streaking other than to point back over my shoulder at the security guards or cops I was certain were right behind me. They must have been, because Kim’s smile disappeared instantly as he flew past me. I didn’t even risk turning around to see if he had run straight into them. I just kept running, now looking only for the car. I planned to find Kim again later. If I could.

I rounded another corner of the building and stopped under a little side entrance-way to look about and catch my breath. There appeared to be no one chasing me now. I figured once they saw Kim, running bare-ass naked through their parking lot at 7 a.m. on a weekday, I had become just a mediocre prize and they must now be focused solely on him.

As I stood there, panting, I looked up and saw The Car! It was parked under some trees kind of off by itself and a more beautiful sight I had not seen in some time. I walked briskly to it as I pulled out the keys, hopped in and started trying to navigate to the exit. I found it, but there was one of those wooden barriers across the road and one of those boxes you slide a card into. I did not recall that being there the night before and I certainly didn’t have a fucking card to slide into the box. So I simply drove through the barricade.

Having secured the car, I started driving around the hospital looking for Kim, while also looking for flashing lights and cop cars. No Kim to be seen. By the time I had made three laps around the hospital road I was about to give up and go home to give John the happy news that we might have to come up with some bail money. As I was driving on the road behind the building, (a narrow service road with the hospital on the left and a cemetery on the right) I saw that red ginger afro pop up from behind a tombstone. I stopped the car, leaned over, opened the passenger side door just in time for Kim to hurl himself in (He had put his clothes back on at this point).

I saw two police cars directly in front of us as they turned onto our road, but at least 40 yards away.

“Step on it!” He yelled.

Remaining calm, or at least trying to, I said, “Hold on. They’re looking for two guys on foot. If I don’t make any sudden moves, they’ll probably ignore us. Get down on the floor board and hang tight.”

I drove straight ahead slowly toward the cops and pulled onto a service entryway, allowing them to pass. As soon as they did, I pulled back out and drove off, pretty as you please.

“Well, that was slick, Mr. Cool,” Kim said as he positioned himself back in the seat.

“You’re welcome Asshole.”

“Let’s just go home now, can we?”

“Roger that,” as I stepped on the gas.

**********

Chapter Six Here