The approach to the green on number thirteen is the trickiest on the entire course. It’s a deceptively simple looking par three and only one hundred and fifty yards from tee to the hole. But the green is right in the middle of three sand bunkers and a small pond. The bunkers are fairly deep and require a great wrist shot and pitching wedge to get you out of trouble. As for the pond, well, you’re on your own.
Just like the day the guy in the plaid pants showed up. But I digress.
It’s the slope that makes this hole so interesting. It sits well above the fairway at the top of a very steep elevation. Someone nicknamed it ‘little girl green’ because anyone who misreads the greens will putt too strongly. As a result the ball rolls off the green and down the slope leaving just about every golfer screaming like a little girl, hence the name.
But that was the least of the troubles that plagued the golfers on hole number thirteen this morning. One of the golfers wore pants with a garish red and yellow plaid pattern; let’s call him Plaid Pants. Plaid Pants had played this hole several times, but each time is like it’s the first time. Plaid Pants was no exception. What happened to him was the most incredible event ever seen during the seventy years of this course.
Plaid Pants had teed off (and he was teed off, get it?) with a six iron as he feared that he would over-shoot the hole. He made a nice straight drive that was right on target. Right on target for the pond. With a solid ‘pla-think’, his white ball marked with three purple letter X's and the bright red stripe splooshed its way into the pond, just a little right of centre.
After the others in the foursome make their tee shots – one on the green and two in the same sand bunker – Plaid Pants walked his bag up to the pond. He peered into the murky waters but was certain that he located his golf ball. There was no way to play this one. Better to fish it out of there and take the one stroke penalty. All agreed that that was the most sensible thing to do. Boring, but sensible.
Plaid Pants extended his ball retriever to the appropriate length and then carefully skimmed the bottom of the pond in order to pick up the ball. His fellow companions didn’t want to hold up things too much for the players behind them, so it was agreed they could hack their way out of the bunker and wait on the green. The guy with the ball on the green strolled over to the pond to see if he could help.
“Hey, looks like you’ve got it. That wasn’t so…”
Suddenly, Plaid Pants felt the sharp tug on the ball retriever; it felt as though his forearm was being ripped from his elbow. ‘On the green’ guy watched as Plaid Pants struggled to keep his balance. By now Plaid Pants had both hands tightly gripping his retriever. His teach ground against each other with a scraping eeriness and beads of sweat ran down his face.
“Help me! Somebody help me! It’s got me!”
Normally, this would be the ‘little girl green’ type of yell. But this was no case of crying over a runaway ball. Plaid Pants was fighting to keep whatever is was from pulling him into the pond. ‘On the green’ guy wrapped his hands around the retriever and he was sure that his arms were being ripped out of their shoulder sockets. The two ‘bunker boys’ threw down their Pings and ran over to help. One ‘bunker boy’ grabbed Plaid Pants by the right leg, while the other ‘bunker boy’ grabbed the left leg.
All four of them pulled, straining under the weight from the force pulling on the other end of the retriever. His arms aching from the severe pain of desperation, Plaid Pants nearly blacked out as the retriever slipped out of his clammy hands. All four men collapsed in a heap in the pond. After they scrambled out, their four behinds stuck up in the middle of the air as they peered into the pond. Plaid Pants was Plaid Pants no more.
His pants had been ripped from his body, and were nowhere to be seen.
To be continued….
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