So Like Go

Part 1: How It All Started
 So, I was sitting around reading a book and watching a nature show on TV and waiting for my snack to warm up when my phone jingled, announcing the arrival of a text message.
 So, I picked up my phone and checked the message.
 So, it was from my buddy Erik and he was like, “Hey, Jack, want to go golfing this weekend?”
 So, I go, “Sure.” So, I grabbed my snack and watched the rest of the nature show, featuring dingoes and lions even thought they don’t live in the same place but maybe that was the point of the show.

So, a few days later I drove out to this golf course called Quail Valley and met my buddy Erik who invited me to play golf. So, we met in the clubhouse, and he goes, “Hey, Jack!” And I’m like, “Hey, Erik!”
 So, we climbed in a golf cart and drove out to the first tee, where things got very interesting (almost shockingly so) very quickly.

Part 2: Fore!
 (so, like, this is the continuation of the story — here we go!)
 So, the golf course was busy that day and Erik and I were paired up with two other golfers, which made a foursome. (“Foursome” is the golfing term for four people in a group, rather than saying “Quartet” or “Tetrafecta”. Golf course convention holds that the maximum number of people playing together shall be four, because five golfers in a group causes certain problems we need not discuss here and a group of six golfers just looks silly.)
 So, our playing partners we had never met before were a lady named Mindy and a gentleman named Roark. So, we shook hands and made our introductions.
 So, on the first tee, Erik is like, “So, why don’t you two tee off first?”
 So, I go, “Yeah, go ahead.”
 So they do, and they both hit very nice tee shots and we complimented their shots but not effusively because that would have sounded disingenuous and we only that moment met them and we wanted to make good first impressions.
 So, it was now Erik’s and my turn to swat our golf balls down the fairway.
 So, Erik goes, “So, you wanna hit?”
 And, so, I’m like, “Naaa, you go ahead.”
 So he does, and he strikes his ball cleanly and it sails straight down the middle of the fairway and Roark goes, “So, nice shot!”
 So, then it was my turn and I hadn’t played a round of golf in a year and most golf pros don’t recommend waiting a year between rounds of golf for optimum performance and I hadn’t warmed up or anything like that and I was a little nervous after seeing three really good tee shots go flying off the drivers of Mindy and Roark and Erik.
 So, like, it was time for me to go.
 And, so, I went and teed up my ball and took a swing.

Part 3: The Shape of Shots to Come
 So, there I was on the first tee at Quail Valley Golf Course, preparing to hit my tee shot after my three playing partners, Mindy and Erik and Roark, all struck their golf balls smartly and laser-straight, considerable distances down the fairway.
 So, not having played golf in a year, I assessed my chances at cuffing the dimpled sphere (what we golfers sometimes call the ball, in case you were wondering if I had suddenly taken my story off course) on a trajectory that would ensure its landing comfortably near one of the other three balls so smartly struck by the aforesaid threesome. And, so, I gave myself a 20% chance of making solid contact with the ball that sat on its tee daring me to hit it, and I gave the ball itself an 11% chance of landing in the short grass (what we golfers sometimes call the fairway, as it is most often the area of the course with the second-shortest cut of grass — the greens being the shortest because putting on a green with long grass introduces a level of concern and impending despair seldom seen in circles of athletic competition).
 So, my preparation and assessment evidently consumed a measure more time than expected, prompting Erik to go, “So, ya gonna hit the thing or what?”
 So, I’m like, “Yeah, almost ready, just a few more adjustments.”
 And, so, Roark goes, “So, take your time, we’re in no hurry. There’s a foursome on the green.”
 And Mindy’s like, “Sshhhh, he’s about to take his swing.”
 So, I gave careful thought to which of the four common types of golf swings I should use on this first tee, a par four hole of about 350 yards.
 So, the four swing types were: cautious, smooth, authoritative, and vigorous. Current wisdom would lean toward employing a cautious or smooth swing. So, my decision, as I addressed my ball and drew my club back, was slightly different from what current wisdom would suggest.
 So, my playing partners looked on, brows furrowed with concern as they followed the path my arms and club described as they swished through the air.
 So, Erik goes, “Hmmmm.”
 So, Roark’s like, “Huh.
 And Mindy goes, “Oh my.”

Part 4: Closest to the Pin Competition
 So, as my swing reached its peak and began its downward arc to make contact with my ball, I had the briefest of moments to make critical adjustments. As mentioned in Part 3, while the wise golfer would opt for a more conservative swing of the types sometimes known as cautious and smooth, and eschew the more adventurous swing types known as authoritative and vigorous, I chose to meld the components of all four: a cautiously smooth swing with hints of authoritative vigor.
 So, in that moment at the start of my downstroke, I decided to make some adjustments because, while I hadn’t played in a year, I had watched golf on TV and pretty much knew what needed to be done. So I added a wee bit more caution and dialed back ever so slightly on the authoritative while holding the vigor and the smooth at their current level.

So, I don’t understand why people say I overthink things.

So, club met ball and a stern “crack!” gushed off the first tee.

So, there are generally two reasons why people who are watching a person take a swing at a golf ball and the results therefrom (I’ve always wanted to use ‘therefrom’, but I never thought it would happen in a story about people playing golf, not that golf lacks that certain air of erudition and sophistication within which folks are prompted to yank out little-used words such as ‘therefrom’) utter comments like, ‘Hmmm’, or ‘Huh’, or ‘Oh, my’:
 Reason One: the shot was spectacularly bad.
 Reason Two: the shot was shockingly good.
 So, because of the interplay of sun and glare and shadows and clouds and spits of blue sky, I did not see the flight of the ball at all, therefore I was not sure whether my drive on the first tee was spectacular or shocking.
 So, I’m like, “Where did it go?”
 And, so, Erik goes, “You’re not gonna believe me if I tell you.”
 And, so, Roark’s like, “It’s down the middle. Nice shot!”
 And, so, Mindy goes, “It’s, like, in the middle of the middle of the fairway. I’ve never seen a ball go so straight.”
 So, I’m like, “Me neither.”
 So, Erik goes, “How did you do that?”
 So, I’m like, “With smoothly vigorous authoritative caution.”
 So, Erik goes, “OK, don’t tell me.”

Part 5: The Neverending Hole
 So, to recap the story for those readers joining the festivities late, some of whom probably think they can skip right past Parts 1–4 and follow along trouble-free (which most likely will prompt the faithful who have read every single word so far to scoff and say, “Pshaw!” or other equally dismissively disparaging remarks), my good friend Erik invited me to play golf last weekend and so we met up at a golf course (which is the best place to play golf, unless your intent is merely to swat things with clubs and then you might as well apply to be an extra on the next episode of Game of Thrones) and were paired with two other people and we all hit very good tee shots on the first tee.

So, now we’re all on the same page, as they say.

So, Mindy and Erik and Roark and I sized up our approach shots from the fairway of Hole #1 at the scenic Quail Valley Golf Course and we all hit good second shots leading to a couple of chips and a few putts and a couple of pars and a couple of bogies (‘bogey’ being the golfing term for one over par, a definition which helps only if you know what ‘par’ means, along the lines of defining ‘mendacity’ as ‘circumspection wearing knickers’, you know, like that). And so the scenario that played out on Hole #1 was repeated repeatedly and before we knew it we had finished the front nine and were driving our carts briskly to the tenth tee.

“So,” Roark goes while sipping a refreshing beverage, “that went pretty well.”
 So, Mindy goes, “So, I haven’t played this good in a long time!”
 So, Erik is like, “So, I, too, am astonished at the level of play I have achieved thus far.”
 So, I go, “These pretzels are making me thirsty.”
 “So,” Roark said as he bit into a sturdily constructed Snickers bar, “this seems like an easy course.”
 So, Mindy goes, “So, we have had absolutely no problems so far.”
 So, Erik’s like, “So, we have been as lions to this course’s lamb.”
 So, I go, “My ball doesn’t look perfectly spherical.”

So, we began play on the back nine exuding confidence and more than ready for anything Quail Valley could throw at us.
 Or so we thought.
 So, never taunt the Golf Gods.

Part Six: This Time We Really Mean It When We Say ‘Fore!’
 So, we get up on the 10th tee of Quail Valley Golf Course, all of us overconfident in our abilities although quietly so. So, having socked nine consecutive straight drives, we four golfers (Mindy and Roark and Erik and I) took aim at the generously wide 10th fairway and gave it our best, which turned out to be not so hot.
 So, Roark’s drive hooked into the deep rough.
 So, Mindy’s drive sliced into the neighboring fairway, as did Erik’s.
 So, my tee shot sliced sharply, in an attempt to land next to, or on top of, Roark’s ball (which, if you have even the slightest notion of the difficulty of balancing one ball atop another, would have been a sight to behold).
 So there was the generously wide fairway, devoid of golf balls.
 So, three of us thrashed and hacked our way to over-par scores on hole #10, while Erik miraculously birdied the hole with a second shot that defied gravity, logic, and sensibility and landed softly on the green about 15 feet from the pin (“pin” being the term golfers in the know employ to describe the flagstick placed in the hole on the green that is the ultimate goal, and the reason for calling the flagstick a pin is a tightly held secret among golfer’s worldwide).
 So, on the short cart drive to the 11th tee, Erik goes, “I’ve eagled the 10th hole before, so a birdie is a little disappointing.”
 So, I’m like, “I’d like to see an aurora borealis one of these nights.”

So, we toiled along the back nine (which is what we golfer’s call the second half of a golf course, for reasons that remain part of the charm of the game), slicing and hooking and duffing and chunking and worm-burning and shanking our way to scores that reduced the cost of our rounds of golf if you’re calculating cents per shot.
 So, on the 15th tee, Roark goes, “So, my game has gone south.”
 So, Mindy’s like, “Mine, too. So, I must be getting tired.”
 So, Erik goes, “So, it can be a frustrating game, can it not?”
 So, I’m like, “That clump of trees over there reminds me of the time I was riding the light rail and this homeless guy -”
 And, so, Erik, interrupting my light rail of thought, goes, “Please don’t continue.”

So we reach the 16th tee, a short par three, and as we wait patiently for the foursome on the 16th green to go through their putting rituals we have seen 15 times before, Roark lets out a sigh that perhaps could be heard on the green. So, keep in mind that our playing partners, Mindy Valdespino and Roark Cumberbatch (I made up their last names to add some pizazz to the story, you know, liven things up a little bit, not that the story is dragging along, but just in case it needed a bit of oomph, well, fake surnames might just do the trick) are very nice people — cordial and engaging and at times humorous. So, to help Roark maintain his congeniality, I made the comment we all were thinking and had been embedded in Roark’s sigh.
 And that comment set off some serious fireworks.

The Seventh and Final Part: A Round to Remember
 On the 16th tee of the scenic Quail Valley Golf Course, I and three playing partners waited for the foursome in front of us to putt out, and each of the four took upwards of eleven minutes to complete their ponderous rituals leading up to cuffing 4 or 5 putts each before picking up. Roark had let out a sigh of despondence, and I voiced what we all were thinking:
 “Come on already, putt the dang ball.”
 “I hate it when people labor over putts,” Roark said in a low voice. “They take all day and then miss the putt anyway.”
 “How about people who waggle and step back and take a bunch of practice swings and waggle some more and still hit a crappy shot?” Mindy said. “That really gets my goat.”
 “Pet peeves,” Erik opined. “We all have them, don’t we? All the more so in situations such as this.”
 “You know what really rubs me the wrong way?” I added. “Canada geese walking around pooping all over a golf course I’m trying to play.”

And that’s when we truly began to enjoy ourselves, trading pet peeves as we made our way through the final three holes. Mindy didn’t like people who walked around with their noses in their phones. Erik hated the pretension of hipster coffee shops offering ‘pour-over’ drip coffee. Movie theater 3-D glasses drove Roark up the wall (“I pay extra for those crappy things? And we’re living in a high-tech age!”) I’d had about enough of products no true artisan would ever claim as his or her own being referred to as ‘artisanal’. We were all galled by: spam e-mail, spam phone calls, tip jars everywhere, obnoxious laughs, people slurping their drinks, and people who borrow your stuff and you have to go to them and get your stuff back. We laughed and laughed, and each pet peeve seemed to cancel out a poor golf shot.
 And then, as he was lining up his approach shot on the 18th fairway, Roark mused, “You know when someone is describing a conversation and uses ‘go’ and ‘like’ in place of ‘says’ or ‘said’? That really gets my hackles up.”
 “Me, too,” Mindy offered.
 “Likewise,” Erik interposed.
 “It’s as if they were scratching fingernails across a chalkboard,” I suggested.
 “Here’s another one along those lines,” Mindy declared. “I’m getting awfully tired of hearing every interviewee on PBS or NPR begin every answer to every question with the word, ‘So…’ When I hear someone start off with ‘So…’, I think ‘so what?’ and tune them out.”
 “I hate that, also,” Roark said as he watched his shot trickle onto the green.
 “It’s aggravating,” I averred.
 “It is indeed the epitome of irksome,” Erik pontificated.

We putted out on Hole #18, shook hands, exchanged sincere pleasantries, and went our separate ways. In the parking lot, Erik and I shook hands one more time.
 “You’re gonna write a story about today, aren’t you?” Erik said as he stuffed his clubs into the rear end of his giant, gas-inhaling SUV.
 “Not sure yet,” I remarked. “Maybe. Not much happened, actually.”
 “Hey, if you do,” Erik commented, “could you make me sound all erudite and professorial? You know, like I’m some kind of genius?”
 “I could,” I replied, “but then what if someone who knows you reads the story and they’re all like, ‘So, Erik, you’re not smart at all. The Erik guy in this story can’t be you.’ Then what?”
 “So,” Erik responded, “I’d go, ‘Uh huh, am so smart. It is me in the story, so shut up.’ I’d be like that.”
 “So,” I said, “wait, I think you may be onto something. Yeah, I can make a story out of today.”
 And so I did.