Golf is a great sport, unless you die playing it. Then it’s a bummer.
First, let me tell you that I’ve had some very crazy friends. Shocking, I know. So, they nearly killed me three times on golf outings.
Give any crazy guy a golf cart, and you’re just asking for trouble. Add a PGA pro, who can do most anything with a cart, along with two others who use the cart properly and you have a very big problem.
The first time, we were playing at a course where there are a lot of very steep hills. My friend I was with drove the cart down one of the hills and stopped perfectly at the tee. We then heard some loud voices and laughter coming from behind us. My buddy leaped from the cart but I didn’t get off in time for the collision.
My neck and back were injured in the crash, ending my golf game. It took a couple of weeks to feel well enough to go out again. Why would I go with the same guys? I know! But, here I was, riding in the cart with the same buddy as before.
The golf pro was driving the other cart, and could fish tail it perfectly to wind up where he needed to be. Not so, with my buddy driving our cart. I used to have a habit of choosing my club for my next shot and holding it, along with my golf ball.
Suddenly, with no warning, my driving buddy decided to fishtail to our left, rocketing me out of the cart. I was airborne, and landed face down on the turf, with my golf ball directly under my now broken ribs. They thought it was hilarious, of course, because that’s what buddies do.
I spent the next three days in bed and had to cancel a comedy show for only the second time in 20 years. I was very angry, to say the least. It’s funny now, but not then. If you’ve ever broken ribs, you know what I mean.
After 6 weeks, I decided to play again, but only if I rode in the golf pro’s cart. We stopped for lunch after 9 holes, as always. There were only three of us this time because the other guy was out of town. The guy on his own didn’t want to rent a cart by himself, deciding to walk instead.
That guy used to do the chicken dance, which was hilarious. So, I’m sitting in the cart, the guy tees off and started walking off, doing the chicken dance. I was laughing when I told him to stop it. He mooned me, which made me laugh even harder.
I was eating some Doritos at the time, nachos cheese, if you must know. When he mooned me, I laughed so hard that one of the chips became lodged in my throat, so I couldn’t breathe. I was choking so loud and the golf pro was just getting ready to tee off, when he saw the mooning as well.
No one could hear me gasping for breath. I started coughing very loud, loud enough for the pro to hear me. He was now rolling on the grass, laughing. I was still choking and drinking soda in an attempt to soften the deadly Dorito. Fortunately, it worked. Again, funny now.
I never went golfing again. Ever. When you sustain the kind of injuries and life threatening incidents that I did, it changes one’s perspective on something that is supposed to be fun. Two of the guys are still good friends, who would do anything for me. The fourth one turned out to be a real jerk.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a light bulb that needs to be changed, and I can only reach it by standing on top of a stool.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
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