Yesterday I decided to hit the links despite the wind howling like my mother-in-law at Christmas dinner. Grabbed my dusty clubs from the garage – the ones with cobwebs growing between the irons – thinking muscle memory would save me. Boy was I wrong.
The Warm-Up Disaster
Started on the practice green putting three-footers. Missed seven in a row before one finally wobbled in. My playing partner Chuck snorted loud enough to scare birds off the twelfth hole. Didn’t bother with the driving range cause last time I shanked a ball through someone’s kitchen window. Just marched straight to the first tee shaking like a chihuahua in a snowstorm.
Hole-by-Hole Trainwreck
Here’s how it went down:
- Hole 1: Dunked my driver shot straight into the pond. Thought I heard a frog croak “loser”.
- Hole 3: Chunked a wedge so hard it dug a trench deeper than my last relationship.
- Hole 7: Four-putted like a blindfolded toddler. The flagstick started laughing – swear to god.
- Hole 12: Hit a tree so dead-center it ricocheted into my own golf cart. Chuck almost peed himself laughing.
The Breaking Point
By hole 15 my scorecard looked like a phone number. Tried to hit a fade around a bunker – ball went backwards somehow. Chuck kept saying “nice try” while biting his lip bloody trying not to laugh. When my putter flew further than the ball on 17th green? Yeah. That happened. Walked off 18 with grass stains on my knees and pride deader than disco.
Finished with a cool 108. Chuck slapped my back saying “we’ve all been there” while his scorecard showed 78. Bastard. Lesson learned? Golf’s just adult punishment for being bad at other sports. Next time I’m staying home to watch paint dry – less frustrating and cheaper beer.
