The Walking Wounded-The Never-Ending Trials and Tribulations Of Golfer Sand-Bagger Johnson

“Jesus,” Sand-Bagger Johnson shouted out, hereafter Sandy to save precious cyberspace and to not tax the mental capacities of Casey as he skims through this sketch, “this ninth hole is turning into the Battan Death March, turning us into the walking wounded.” The diminutive Irishman, Ammon, a stand-in for the missing Lucky Pierre who was off on a golf outing, no make that a business conference in Arizona just in case the boss sees this e-mail, picked up on the reference and merely snickered. That snicker said it all for the kind of hole it had turned out to be. First off Sandy, the likable if injured Zowey, and the svelte and uninjured Casey (or at least he had not used that chestnut of an excuse that day but some other preoccupation probably was offered although Sandy tended to ignore all those excuses out of hand as so much hot air) had all put their tee-shots in the ditch (really the nature area, the nature area being a place by agreement in the interest of conservation/ecological preservation that no one was to allowed to enter but one was to take a stroke penalty and after taking a two club length position no closer to the hole drop another ball and play from there). So they all hit three from the drop zone thoughtfully provided by the wizen but wise greens-keeper on orders from the ornery club professional at prestigious Pine Pond Golf Course who in his frenzy to maximize profits didn’t want to slow up play one minute longer than necessary. (The fill-in fourth, the sullen Irishman Ammon had his own troubles almost as bad as those “up in the North” in the days before the Good Friday Peace Accord if you heard him tell the tale but since he was not part of the day’s betting propositions his progress down the ninth hole can be dismissed out of hand.)

Let’s in the interest of a faster pace tell what happened to Sandy first. That now third shot landed in the first left bunker. He hit a sand shot out about fifty yards now lying four, booted one in the green side front right trap (really the “s” word, hell we are all adults-shank-just in case somebody might think I was referring to sex with that “s” word business), five, out in sixth, and with two indifferent putts an eight. I will dispatch with Casey forthwith since he had already had been beaten like a gong by both his other rivals and so his continual booting the ball down the fairway, rough, water, traps, whatever is of only marginally more interest than Ammon’s. The wily Zowey is another story his third shot landed in the right side pond. Hitting out five. Next shot about fifty yards six, Next shot over the green seven, a booted chip eight and two breath-taking putts for a ten. No question the Battan Death March was a piece of cake compared to the travails the lowly linksters that brisk Saturday morning.

What makes this last hole of interest and understandable even with  Casey’s short attention span is that Sandy’s glorious eight grabbed him an Uncle Sammy Hammy for his efforts, a sawbuck for the clueless. We already know Casey was built to be the fall-guy for the day since he found every tree, sand trap, water and out of bounds marker he could shake those sticks at. He was the paymaster. Zowey had actually had a good day beating Sandy like a gong in six holes which included his first precious birdie of the year. Sandy pressed and won holes seven and eight. Match. Zowey pressed and we know how ill-fated that decision was. As for Ammon he got off with just that “walking wounded” snicker. Selah.