Monday, June 30, 2008

DUCK MURDERER

A fuck for a duck, and a duck for a fuck, and twenty five bucks for a fucked up duck.

It's the punchline to some lame joke I used to remember from my childhood. It probably stuck because of the swear words. I was growing up in Utah if that tells you why I was grasping at swear-laden straws.

I've never been one to remember jokes very easily. There are always a few people who can recall jokes until the sun comes up. I'm not one of those. I do remember about 3 jokes. All of them are either inappropriate or so cheesy that I love them.

I just flew in, and boy are my arms tired.

See what I mean?

Anyhow, I played 27 holes of golf on Friday. The second nine was the joke. I shot 42 on the front, really only blowing up two holes to take my score up into the forties. On the back nine my friends were in deep belly laugh mode as I somehow managed to play double bogey golf and shoot 54. It probably would have been higher if I hadn't been grinding so hard to get my swing back.

After I lost all chances at any skin money over those 9 finishing holes(Despite finishing the front with a commanding skin money lead) I asked if we could up the stakes for the final 9. $5 a hole skins, greenies, sandies, longest drive on par 5's, double for birdies, triple for eagles. They agreed.

So I shoot 40 with two birdies and end up making money after all. Not too shabby.

That's 42-54-40 with 0 ducks murdered, for those of you following along.

The next day I drive two hours north to meet up with some friends halfway through their golf weekend. A guy had to leave and I was able to pretend I was him for a round on Saturday, dinner, breakfast, and the final round on Sunday.

Despite my tremendous good looks and flock of groupies following me everywhere I go, nobody seemed to notice that I hadn't been there all weekend. Yay for free golf!

Saturday I shoot 42 on the front with all of my penalties coming from hitting my new pitching wedge too far. Goddamn I'm fucking strong.

On the back nine all of these guys decide they want to play a scramble and I'm disappointed. I was grooving it and wanted the chance to finish strong and break 80. But alas, you don't show up to another man's party and start demanding to change the music.

We played those 9 holes 2 under, and had it not been for some tricky short putts that we couldn't put in we'd have been at 5 under. I was hitting low hooks around trees, crushing drives down the fairway, and working the wind with my irons to within 10 feet routinely. One hole I hit 320 down the middle, a 7-iron from 180 that worked the wind to within 5 feet of the hole (Pin high, of course) and knocked the eagle putt in.

Things were going well.

That night I won the second of two poker games for a doubling of my mobney.

Great golf, poker win, and 0 ducks murdered.

In the morning I lost my swing completely. I think my body was golfed out. Every swing was a mess. The ball was getting unlucky kicks. I couldn't hit anything square to save my life and I found myself playing triple bogey golf and nothing I did was improving that. So I played a couple holes with a guy's left handed clubs. I hit some nice 3-irons.

About the 8th hole I decided I was just going to call it a day. The round was painfully slow and my game was frustratingly pathetic. I still had a two hour drive home and figured if I left they could merge the remaining group and play a five-some in without slowing things down. Plus my vagina hurt.

I step up to the 9th hole, a 320 yard par 4 into the wind with water cutting from midway up the left side through the front of the green. It's a 3-iron tee shot lay-up with a 7-iron home if all goes well.

All did not go well.

I worm burned a drive off the box. This was particularly fitting, as my round found me hitting every which way but correctly.

I drove my cart up to the ball and decided it was time to stop trying. After all, my score was shot to hell and I was done after this hole anyways. I grabbed a 5-iron out of my bag and walked up to my ball. Instead of checking my line and focusing on my grip and stance, I just placed the club behind the ball and set my feet in one fluid motion from walking up. I swung the club back without checking anything or worrying about it, and struck my fifty something-ish crappy shot of the day.

As I looked up to see the shot, it wasn't what I expected. I didn't get to see an arching left to right beauty that dropped delicately in the fairway short of the water.

That's because 30 feet in front of me a duck happened to be flying in from my left and at precisely the moment I looked up my ball was hitting the duck in mid-flight, sending it off it's earlier trajectory and in all sorts of wing-flapping tumbles towards the ground.

I let out a "YEEEESSSSSSS!" partly because I didn't believe I'd actually hurt it, and partly because it was a culmination in how terrible everything was going for me. A sarcastic yes, if you will.

He (Or she, I guess) tried to bounce back up. His legs were working but it looked as if his head wasn't following suit. He was doing what looked like a tumble routine. Lots of spinning and rolling. Eventually a minute or so later he ends up on his back and his little legs were working but that was about all.

I wanted to put him out of his misery but there was no way I was going to be beating a wounded duck with any of my golf clubs. Because they're too valuable to risk breaking I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger on something like that. I'm too sensitive.

I decided that I'd tell the guy working the pro shop and let them take care of it. By the time I drove up and back the duck wasn't moving any longer.

I had killed a duck in mid-flight with my golf ball.

It was the only thing I hit flush all day.

3 comments:

Easycure said...

Nice kill. Keep up the good work.

elizabeth said...

wow...that story read like this to me...

crazy golf jargon i don't understand...more crazy golf terms...golfy golfness of golf...my boyfriend kills stuff.


sigh.

Matt said...

Nice shot hitting the duck in mid-flight, almost reminds me of the story of Terp going crazy on a muskrat with a golf club out at Fruitport back in the day.