@user-nl2tc9to7s

3 years ago

This song reminds me of a story from my own life- when I was in high school, I started playing golf. My dad had played it when he was younger, I had some friends who played, so I bought some second hand clubs and dove in. Sure, things were rough at the start, but I got good, and I got good fast. Like, really good- I shot my first 72 my sophomore year of high school, and soon after I started entering local tournaments. I won my first contest less than two years after picking up a golf club for the first time, and pretty soon I started to get emails from colleges. I continued to improve my short game, and I was consistently shooting sub-70 on reasonably challenging courses by the time I graduated high school. The summer after I graduated, I got an intriguing email- a club nearby was holding a charity event about bird habitat conservation, and wanted me to play in their pro-am. I had never gotten to play with pros before, so I immediately accepted. The day was pretty casual, mostly about schmoozing big donors and day drinking. I wasn’t worried about that, though- I was focused on the game. Through the front nine I was one under, and I knew I could do better- just as I looked for the 10th tee box, though, my caddy called from behind me. Apparently we were taking a break because half of my foursome wanted to hit the lunch buffet. I was a bit frustrated, sure, but this wasn’t my event, and I had to play by their rules. Anxious to get back on the course, I waited- and waited- and waited. I grabbed a few promotional golf tees, each decorated with different rare birds. One had the Hornbill, another the Kakapo, and the last few had the Australian Tit. I’d been waiting in the clubhouse for an hour now, and the smell of food was starting to get to me. I normally wouldn’t eat mid round, but I had no clue how long the rest of my group would be, so I sauntered over to the buffet. A barbeque pulled pork sandwich caught my eye, but just as I grabbed it from the tray, my caddy was calling me out to start the back 9. I rushed out of the building, sandwich in hand, ready to play. The back 9 didn’t go as I intended- shanked drive here, sliced wedge there. I was trading a club for my lunch every couple minutes, trying desperately to finish the sandwich that was rapidly soaking through its paper wrappings. I had forgotten my plastic tees at home, and resorted to using the promotional wood ones I had picked up earlier. They were breaking nearly every swing, and as I got to the 18th, I was getting desperate. My hunger was mounting, I was running low on tees, my score was right on the edge of par- this was do or die. As I grabbed my last tee and ball at the top of 18, the weak wax paper that encased my lunch finally failed. The sandwich’s contents spilled to the ground, and I stood there in shock. There I was- barbeque sauce on my Tit tees.

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