Shoulder To The Wheel-The Never-ending Trials and Tribulations of Sand-Bagger Johnson

 

Sand-Bagger Johnson had to laugh to himself when the pro at posh Pine Pond Country Club told him and the other members of his “dawn patrol” foursome present, Lucky Pierre (and that moniker would prove true that day) and the sinewy Casey, that their fourth member, Zowey, was a “no show” due to some shoulder injury that had been plaguing him since it seemed to Sandy forever (remember we are trying to save cyber-space so Sandy hereafter). No, Sandy was not laughing about his compadre’s ailment which was real enough although it had not previously stopped the mad monk Zowey from bemoaning his injury to whomever would listen while he was blissfully walking said golf course. That twenty-eight million excuses for poor play is what had Sandy in an uproar inside. The number of ways that a golfer, and maybe not just golfers but any sportsmen, oops, Cambridge, sportspersons, find to excuse poor play. Sandy personally had been wearing out his welcome with his own miserable shoulder problems since Hector was a pup. Had used that excuse more times than one could shake a stick at in order to get that one teeny-weeny little extra stroke that would insure triumph over the embittered rivals.

Jesus, all the excuses he had used, had heard over the years. Guys yakking about how the clubs didn’t fit them right, or maybe the ball wasn’t warm enough for the weather conditions, or was too warm take your pick. The various ailments from gout to lumbago have all gotten a workout. Or equipment, you know worn out shoes, or too new shoes, again take your pick. The tees were too long, or short. Lucky Pierre one time said it was because he hadn’t had a peanut butter sandwich or something after he had booted the ball down the fairway (mostly) all morning. And the svelte Casey was always yakking about how he used the wrong club after the twenty-fifth time that he put one in the left woods with a driver when all he needed was a four metal wood to do the deed. Zowey took the cake one day and this was a “beaut” even if you were dumb enough to believe his wooden wounded shoulder story. He had this habit of insisting on yelling at the ball like maybe it was human, or capable of human understanding, but this time he couldn’t get the word out in time and the foolish ball (if golf balls have such feelings) wound up in the drink, wound up in the pond. Like if he had said the magic mantra it would have landed a million miles away from water. Yeah, golfers have got the excuse department well covered.             

Sandy did not play well that day of the “no show” Keith event but he as it turned out had a perfectly legitimate reason for that poor play. See there had been an unexpected “frost delay,” a bizarre ritualistic concept which has been explained previously in this space so we shall not tarry here about it. He had arrived a little early for the “dawn patrol” tee time so decided rather than waiting around the clubhouse listening to every damn excuse for poor play by some goof talking about a round from about four months before he would run, ah, make that jog until shortly before tee time around the majestic lake that borders the golf course. As it turned out he got “into” the jogging so he went a little farther than he had expected and when he rounded the turn to the clubhouse his companions we yelling that “we are on the tee.” He ran to his car, grabbed his clubs and ran, ah, jogged to the dreaded first tee.   

Here is where that “switch” from the beauty of jogging to the unwelcome chores of golf came in to shatter Sandy’s game that day. He could not summon up wherewithal to maintain the focus needed to play so even though he was three up against the very lucky Pierre he “forgot” that he was entitled to a “stroke” on the fifth hole which he misplayed and wound up losing the hole. That lost hole begat several others and Pierre grabs the Abe that day. Fortunately Casey, complaining about wet grass underfoot, running fatigue or something, booted the ball all day and so Sandy evened out for the day. No blood (a concept to be explained at another time as the cyber-space air is getting thinner just now). Casey summary-give Hammy, Mammy. Funny how golfers have all the excuses so real ones take a beating-huh.