Lost Balls

After watching the British Open I went hillbilly golfing with friends.  Hillbilly golfing is golfing on farm courses that really aren't very good, which are populated by good old boys who lack social graces but hit the ball about a mile.

I played the worst golf I've played in...well, maybe ever.  People on the course looked at me with obvious pity, the way they would look at a drunken amputee trying to climb back into his wheelchair. 

I was eight over par after two holes, niether of which was particularly hard.  I scored eight or more on three holes on the front nine and four holes on the back.  I took a ten on a 145-yard par three that had no hazard, no out-of-bounds and no sand traps.  Teeing off over a 40 yard pond, I put five straight balls into the drink, and was preparing to hit a sixth when the people I was playing with insisted I carry a ball across to the other side and hit from there.  I did; my next shot traveled 50 feet and came to rest on a sprinkler head.  After dubbing a drive into fluffy rough, I took a mighty swing and my club head went under the ball without touching it; the ball fell into the huge divot I had taken.

Golf being the game it is, I dropped a downhill, 30 foot, two-break putt on the 18th hole to score my first par.

If it hadn't been getting dark, I'd have gone out for nine more holes.