Yes, another golf post.

Yea, that's right. I reserve the right to leave a post about golf. I hear moaning in the background. I hear the click of the back page button. I hear typing in the address bar. Leave if you will, but hey - until you get your own blog I guess you have to just suffer along with my wife.

Golf has eluded me for the past 3 weeks. Yesterday it called. Called. Called. I couldn't resist. I remembered it sultry swoon, the way it lures men into thinking they have what it takes. I happened to open my trunk to put something in there, and there they were. Cold, lonely, looking at me with their sad, shiny faces. They looked so invitingly cute, the way they had a little dirt smudge here, grass stuck in between their grooves there. How could I shut them in there again? What man am I to lock them in the dark, cold recesses of my car? I needed them, and they needed me. I could remember the way they felt in my hands, I could recall the way they looked in the sunlight. It's like opening the fridge on a Saturday morning, seeing a take out box and thinking, "Oh yea, that was a good meal." Then you dive into that Seafood Linguini at 7:00 AM.

Wingpointe Golf Course is the one just adjacent to the airport here in Salt Lake. It's a Links style course. What that means is that it just makes it a little easier to find your ball. No trees, no hills, water from time to time, and lots and lots of wind. In other words, probably the worst kind of course to enjoy on a 98 degree day when you are walking the course and you have no water with you. Matt and I were paired with two other golfers. One in Polo Golf attire, the other just out of the surf shop. The started by playing from the 'tips'. The 'Tips' is a faraway land known as the furthest back tee boxes. Sometimes called the "You're kidding me box". But they belonged there. Both had incredible game. They also had incredible cart. Do you remember the scene in Three Amigos when Chevy Chase, Steve Martin, and Martin Short are riding in the desert? Matt and I were the ones with sand in our canteens. We plodded forward, delirious and sweaty. Exhausted by the lack of electrolytes, we staggered to the first tee. Man, it was just plain hot. The golf gods were happy to have us back it seemed. Steady play. No real blow up holes. But the heat, the heat was relentless. We reassured one another that the ever-present cart girl would be showing up any minute to save us with her refreshment. But alas, no cart girl. She must have been studying for the bar. Or studying at the bar. Our playing partners were laughing, happily sucking straws nestled in Styrofoam cups full of something not hot as they drove by us in their fun mobile. The dust encrusting the corners of our mouths. Our lips, parched white, softly muttered, "Curse you evil playing partners, curse you absent cart girl." There was one more oasis of salvation located at the end of the 8th hole. A rain shelter with two pop machines. Matt comforted me with anticipation that a cold drink awaited me. My dry, raisin-like eyes moistened at just the thought of something cold in my mouth. I screamed, "There they are!" and ran, crisp dollar bill in hand, towards the machines. Matt turned away in painful shame as he could not bare to watch me attempt, over and over, to put my dollar into the sprinkler control box, apparently the heat was overtaking my mind.

I must say that we truly were parched. But our light at the end of the tunnel were those pop machines. As we neared the end of the 8th hole, we rushed over to the rain shelter. Dollar bills out, flattened and ready. Shoving them into the receiver, I cried with anguish, "Sold out, it says 'Sold Out'!". I can't believe that they could play such a cruel joke on us. There must be a hidden camera somewhere. But there was not. Only the steady hum of aircraft taking off over our heads to cover our quiet sobs.

There was one hole left. So we had to suffer through one more painful fairway. I had dialed 9, 1 and was ready to hit 1 again the minute we succumbed. I could see the ambulance waiting with it's I.V. of life waiting in the blurry distance. Matt became crazy from the heat and lost his ball on his drive, so had to hit another one. Curse you, heat exhaustion. Our playing partners had had enough, and with a major breech of golf ettiquette, the were on the green putting before we were midway down the fairway. Our surfer buddy holed out and took off to the clubhouse. I approached the green from about 150 yards, and left it a little short and right. I chipped on and had about 20 feet for par. Matt chipped on and had about 20 feet for double bogey. Curse you, surfer boy. The Sun Gods and Golf Gods had joined forces to punish us one last time. Until the unthinkable happened. I sank that put for par. Matt sank that putt for double. As we walked off the course, suddenly it didn't seem so hot.