The sun was shining. Nerves nowhere to be seen. People dressed in pants. Some short pants. The grass glistening with the ice shavings of an early autumn, lagom mys, kinda day.
Who were we? Jordo doing his best Jesper Parnevik impersonation. All I can say is; plaits. Bruffy playing the Ned Kelly, or maybe Ben Cousins? Such is life tattooed across his soul. McDonalds McManus, bringing it for all the lefties. Big Blue, tracksuit free, “I haven’t played in 8 years” as he smashes another down the fairway. Tesla wearing a shirt that screamed “TESLA I DON’T FIT YOU”. Irish John the silent assassin, flying under the radar until the introspection became too much. Andrew “I walk a lot like Donald Trump” Smith. Needs more than a Thai massage for that. Kingsley looking very sporty, taking a leaf out of Big Blues book, mysbyxor all the way. And there was Condo. Can you be fashionably late on a Sunday morning? Church at a guess.
There was some good golf. There was some bad golf. And there was some really bad golf. Mulligans flowing like wine, bogeys the new par.
Jordo and Bruffy led out the first group in the golf cart. Golf cart! What are you 45? Oh yeah… McManus rounded off the first group. Never has a threesome had so much loneliness. Yeah. See you at the green. Cool. Blue, Tesla and John made up the second group. Condo, Guru and Kings bringing up the rear. Typical.
After a couple of calm opening holes, the third group decided they were being put under pressure, yes pressure, by the group behind them. Balls were raining down on Irish John and Big Blue. Risking life and limb was not part of the days description. And the group exerting the pressure? A group of 75 year old people with vaginas. “No, it WAS stressful! They asked when our tee-off time was!!” Yeah. Sit down. After some colourful exchanges that you wouldn’t necessarily hear around the Christmas table, the third group was allowed to playthrough the two groups in front of them. Lives were saved. This rushing may have cost Smith and Kingsley dearly at the end of the day. Condo was a mere bystander. All day.
But what a front nine. The silence. The grass. The sun. The birds. The freeway. The trucks. All those cars. Calming. After a quick “this could put you in the Emergency Room” toasted ham and cheese thing, it was off to the other side of the road for the back nine. The groups were changed round slightly, Condo playing the loner behind the golf cart in Group one, Blue joining forces with Smith and Kings, with Man or Machine McManus bringing the pain with Tesla and Irish John.
The 17th hole saw it all come together. 9 men (using that term loosely) all teeing off. The bravery of risking the wrath of the Saggy Boob Brigade was remarkable. Badges would have been given out posthumously if necessary. Fortunately, that was not necessary. Needless to say, because of this unspoken pressure, no one hit the fairway. Apparently, people could just keep hitting until they hit one they liked. Smith had three. Counted the third. That’s finance for you.
The 18th was emotional. There is no other word that might encapsulate the enormity of the occasion. The moment. The pressure. I mean the pressure! Closest to the pin won a meal from the Thai food truck. There has not been such a sense of destiny since Steve Bradbury did nothing and won gold. Could it be? Is it really true? Closest to the pin? BRUFFY!!! The stars aligned, the gods spoke, the winds moulded. It was beautiful.
After that, could the day get any better? Yes. It could. Big Blue won The Jacket. See you next year slow coaches.
