Fruits of the Fairway

It was a dark and drizzly January day in Myrtle Beach. We had finished the front nine and were making the turn when suddenly there were ten foursomes in front of us. The starter was just about to get an outing off, beginning on #10, when he stopped to allow us to make the turn and play through.

We thanked them and rushed up to the tee box so we could put some distance between us and not hold up their play. On this day there were only three from the BGA—the Commish, Mr. Fifteen and the ubiquitous Snowman. And there we were, teeing off before the BGA’s largest audience ever.

All eyes were focused on the Commish and Mr. Fifteen as they both hit tremendously mediocre drives, but at least they were quick about it.

The rain and haze seemed to be increasing as the Snowman placed his peg. The Commish and Mr. Fifteen pulled their cart down the path about 60 feet to be able to watch the ball better in the gathering gloom. The Snowman swung. Our eyes looked right and left—we knew the center was safe—but neither of us could find the ball. As we turned back to the teeing ground to admit that we couldn’t follow the flight of his ball, we saw the Snowman walking towards the senior tees. He had evidently popped up; but, even at that short distance, we couldn’t see a ball. Evidently his ball had plugged.

Frosty (even the Snowman has a nickname) reached down, his hand disappeared past his wrist. The earth made a shuddering sucking sound as he pulled his hand and arm out, holding a ball. We tried not to laugh, really, we did, but it was impossible. Our gallery was shaking their collective heads because they were realizing who they had just let play through. Then it happened…

We watched in bewilderment as the Snowman reached down deep into the ground a second time. It felt as if all of the golfers in Myrtle Beach were staring, as, to everyone’s astonishment, Frosty pulled out a second ball that was directly under his tee shot! The links had yielded forth another golf egg from that exact spot. Slowly the crowd was won over and their shaking heads yielded to knowing nods as they became aware that they had been witness to a true BGA moment.

For the record, we never saw any more of the foursomes behind us after that tenth hole so I suspect that their group contained more than a few BGA’ers who have not yet had the courage to embrace their true golf nature and accept the mantle of the Bad Golfers Association.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


"O.B. left ain’t no better than O.B. right." ...Gary Marlowe