Anyway.
Here's a story about something terrible. Terrible and kind of hilarious if it didn't happen to you.
I enjoy playing golf. It fits right into my whole I-really-like-being-good-at-things-that-make-no-sense-to-republicans chip on my shoulder. There's little in this world I like more than handing a 20-stroke beat down to a stranger wearing crisp khakis and a TW polo while I look more like I belong at a biker rally than a golf course.
But that's only part of what I enjoy about playing golf. It's something that I do with my father. I'm confident that my high school years were passed in relative harmony because my dad and I (and my math teacher) played golf two to four times a month from the time I was 12 until I graduated high school. Then, when I moved out of the house, we played together whenever we saw each other. I think the reason the tradition has weathered so well is because my father is a good golfer. In April he turned 72 years old, and it's only been since he hit his eighth decade that I've been able to beat him with any kind of regularity. He's always maintained that he doesn't pay attention to who wins, or that he doesn't feel any pressure of competition, but I always have. I was in Georgia in May, and we hit the links like we've done for the last 25 years.
I wasn't playing well. Probably something to do with only getting to play for 7-10 days per year. Even though he's my father, it's not fun to have your ass handed to you by a man in his seventies when you're fit and in the prime of your life. But this was how I found myself as we mounted the ninth hole at Jennings Mill Country Club*.
*This is a fairly recent development. In the days when I lived at home with Mom and Dad there is no way we would have EVER played at JMCC. That's where the doctors played when I was a kid. The course hosted pro events and was so far out of reach for me it was laughable to even dream of playing there. It was quite the boon when Dad phoned me to tell me he'd joined.
The ninth hole is hard. Most people take a short iron off the tee so they can set themselves up for a long second shot over water. But, if you're fit and in the prime of your life, it's fun to try and drive the ball over the water and go for the green in two. I'd been doing this all week. On this particular round, I decided it would be better to lay up. Like I said, I hadn't been playing well. I hit my iron off the tee and up close to the water. As I approached my ball, I paid little attention to the geese hanging out by the water.
I weighed my options. I decided that if I could hit a good fairway wood from where I was, I would then have an easy chip onto the green and a par. Par on the ninth hole would be a small consolation after the lousy round I'd just endured. I grabbed my 5-wood and lined up the shot.
I swung.
The ball shot off the club, but I hadn't hit it well; a low line drive. A low line drive that frightened the geese just a few yards in front of me, causing them to take to wing. Just as one spread his wings to fly, my ball struck it directly in the neck. The bird fell to the ground, but much to my horror, did not immediately die. It writhed around with roughly four inches of neck and head dragging on the ground. It struggled to get to it's feet, but could not stand with this odd new neck hinge.
I gaped. My father walked over and stood next to me. Together we watched the Greek tragedy unfolding before us. Other geese had noticed and waddled over to assess the condition of their downed comrade; honking and leering like chorus singers. Baby goose chicks scuttled around his body peeping with what could only be described as stunned confusion.
"Oh my god... I just fucking snapped the neck of a goose*!" I'm sure this exclamation came right in the middle of my dad's backswing.
*It should be noted that while the use of the word "fuck" in front of my father is acceptable on the golf course, it is not something that enters into our usual banter. I mean come on. Cursing loudly while playing golf is as critical to the game as a putter or throwing a club down the fairway after hitting an easy approach fat and turning a chance for birdie into a double bogie. Just ask Tiger Woods.
"It's not dead!" I stammered. "what do I do?"
"Well, you've got a club, you could go put it out of it's misery." my father replied. I could detect that he couldn't help but laugh at the bizarre scene unfolding before us.
"I don't think I can do that." is what I said out loud, but inside I was saying I can't believe I'm a vegetarian and I just killed a fucking goose. The irony was palpable.
As I was making the decision as to whether I would have to add blunt-force trauma to the cause of death, the bird stopped squirming. After a what-do-we-do-now pause, my father turned and walked to the cart.
"Come on, get in. There's nothing you can do about it now." He laughed nervously.
"I'm finished. I'll walk to the clubhouse and tell them."
I couldn't bring myself to ride in the cart. It felt a little too much like a getaway car at that moment. A sad, pathetic and strange getaway car, but these are the things that go through one's mind after unintentionally taking a life. So with my head down and my golf glove deflated and bouncing loosely in my back pocket, I walked the final 400 yards to the clubhouse.
"Hey man, how can I help you?" The pro said amicably as I felt the air conditioning whoosh through the door. He was standing behind the register chatting with the drop dead gorgeous drink girl we'd bought Powerades from earlier in the round.. Because of course he was. These sorts of humiliations must be witnessed by un-involved parties.
"I don't know how to tell you this." I said, startled by how meek my voice sounded, "but I just killed a goose on the ninth hole. I feel terrible. I'm so sorry."
He turned and looked out the window. "Oh yeah. I think I can see it down there. Is that it right there by the cart path?"
"Uh yeah..." I could see the tiny brown corpse laying motionless even from this distance. My face felt like it would burst into flames. Other tiny specks were milling around the body, clearly making arrangements for the wake and service.
"No worries, guy, it happens all the time." he laughed. "Actually I should thank you because those geese are a pain in the ass. We've been trying to get rid of them for years."
"Really?"
"Yeah, don't worry about it."
"Okay..." I turned to leave.
"Actually wait. No. There's a fine of $200 if you kill one of those birds. And you have to pay the fine to me!" the drink girl said and both of them died laughing.
I slunk out.
My shame and I drove us home. We told my mom and brother, who laughed uproariously at the vegetarian who killed the bird. When I texted the story to Reyna, her response was to ask if I brought it home and ate it for dinner. No. We did not. And everybody thought it was hilarious.
All night I turned with the image of the goose and it's broken neck flopping around on the ground. Pleading eyes boring into me until a malevolent groundskeeper with a pitchfork speared the still-clinging-to-life animal and deposited it in the woods.
The next day, I summoned my courage and played golf with Dad again. These are the sacrifices one makes when one is only home to enjoy golfing with one's father for one week a year. When we passed the scene of the crime again, the sad goose was still pretzeled on a patch of grass stained brown with its blood; a gaping flesh wound in its neck still plainly visible. It seems neither a malevolent nor a friendly groundskeeper could be bothered with shuttling the mangled bird away. I wondered how many golfers had passed by the scene and wondered what the hell happened. Something should be done I thought. As we passed, I reasoned, they left it to serve as a warning to the other geese, because the only thing besides the corpse that was left on the bank of that pond was goose poop.
I parred the hole and flew home the next day.
Fun Fact: I saw these guys live by accident in Vegas (they were playing with the band I actually wanted to see) and there were loads of kids walking around with t-shirts that read "DOCTORS WON'T BE ABLE TO RECOGNIZE YOUR FUCKING FACE" in reference to this song. All I could think was, "that kid's parents let him out of the house wearing that...." I guess I'm old. Don't believe me?
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| Hopefully this unaccompanied minor won't be able to recognize his fucking face and sue me for using his photo without permission |
