Sexton Chronicles: Golf Tales From a Left-handed Hack

…I came up on my toes when I made contact with the ball. Came up on my toes…and…

…kept right on going.

klangggggggggggggg!

The head of a golf club moves at warp factor 4 (scientific fact I just conjured) when it whacks the ball. It’s still moving at a damn good clip when it finishes its journey. If you watch slow-motion video of a good golf swing, you’ll see the shaft of the club curve with velocity.

The KLANG sound was the sound of the titanium head of my driver colliding with a steel girder. I came up on my toes, alright.

The fillings in my teeth all jumped together when the club head stopped, forcefully and immediately, with the steel of the girder. If my bladder hadn’t vibrated itself into the previous day, I might’ve tinkled. The vibrations went through my dental work, down my neck, said howdy to my balls–golf and other–and untied my shoes. It was bad. It was ugly. It was painful.

The pro fell to the floor, howling with laughter that would’ve made Rasputin blush. His wife was working in the outer office. She ran into the dome to find out what had happened to her husband. All I heard her say, from the puddle I became when I fell to the floor next to Laughing Boy the Golf Pro was, “Honey! Are you okay? You never laugh this hard!”

Dented my driver, but not my ego. When I’m anywhere near a golf club, my ego is in the car.

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