Birdies are extra satisfying when they also serve as a huge middle finger
“That’s a lot of club, bro.”
I’d like to think of myself as being an easygoing fella, especially when it comes to sports. You know how lots of athletes declare that, whether it’s the game they play or a random one like Monopoly, they hate losing more than they like winning because they’re so damn competitive? That ain’t me. Losing’s never really been that painful for me honestly, and I’ve never really looked at an opponent and wanted to rip his head off and feed it to his young children in the way that Kobe or an NFL defensive lineman or any other alpha so often yearns to.
But during a Friday morning round in Connecticut, I actually got a little pissed. Yeah, imagine that — a guy in a Peter Millar sweatshirt and a pineapple Puma hat was angry at a very pretty, treelined golf course. HOW SCARY.
Still, I almost never take exception to things that are said in any sports setting, and it’s not like what this guy said was all that aggressive to begin with. Yet, between his general tone and his final, condescending word, I locked in. And while the nine people who read this may not even find this story to be that good, I’m going to tell it because I enjoyed it big time.
“That’s a lot of club, bro.”
That was the remark that was made to me while I was preparing to tee off on a par 4 that’s 380 yards on the card but features a hard right turn roughly 225 yards away, meaning there’s a major corner-cutting opportunity as long as you can cover the trees that protect the corner. I used to be more conservative than _____ (if I was more familiar with politics, I’d drop the name of some mega-conservative figure here, but since I’m not, fill the blank in yourself with the person of your choosing) when presented with such risk/reward shots. Nowadays, I’m focusing more on going for it since the payoffs can be so beneficial. Therefore, I had pulled driver and was gearing up to get sassy with it.
One of the strangers in my foursome, however, didn’t agree with my choice, and he had no problem sharing that opinion, either. Had he delivered his critique differently or simply just kept off the “bro,” I might’ve even appreciated his input. But I had been driving it supremely well up to that point in the action, I obviously wasn’t planning to take an idiotic line where I indeed would’ve had too much club and, most importantly, this expert was……………. bad at golf. Because I’m not Travis Kelce, I’m not about to label this man a jabroni. He was a jabroni, though.
As I started to address my ball, I mentally took note of how I was experiencing a bit of what can only be called Fuck you, dude, energy. Like, I really desired to make this genius look dumb!
Fortunately, that’s precisely what I did.
I uncorked an ungodly fade that didn’t just cut the corner; it chainsawed the corner. That little corner was shredded beyond recognition. I’m sorry for what I did to you, corner. Now, I was so pumped from my result that I almost missed my buddy’s safer strategy go awry, as he tugged his fairway metal left of his intended path and into a bunker. In a cruel twist of fate, he would’ve been better off taking at least one less club. Hehe. Lawl. Lol.
My work, meanwhile, wasn’t finished. As every non-pro golfer clearly — too clearly — understands, an A-plus drive can instantly be wiped out by a D-minus approach. After my counterpart caught up with me — he smashed his second shot into a tree branch, so three swings were required for him to surpass my first — I paused for an extra beat to remind myself that my golf-equivalent-of-dunking-on-him wasn’t complete unless I put one tight, which I did. I had 48-ish yards remaining and used a controlled 58-degree wedge to drop one slightly left and slightly beyond the flag.
The positive news here is that I had essentially debunked the claim that choosing driver back on the box would prove to be foolish. The negative news is that this tasty meal wouldn’t truly be perfect without me helping myself to a slice of birdie-flavored cake. In the rare instance of everything coming together on a single hole, that’s what ultimately happened; the downhill, left-to-righter trundled into the left side of the hole and I was feeling myself enough to walk it in right ahead of it reaching its final destination.
Was a crowd there to roar? Nah (but the other two gentlemen in our group, who kindly gave the club questioner shit immediately following my drive, did throw in a couple of congratulatory lines).
Did I glare at my newfound foe (who, to be fair, was otherwise harmless aside from his consistent chattering) like I had just clinched a career-defining victory? Also nah, because that would’ve been rather extra and, well, I didn’t wanna distract him from his vital double-bogey putt.
In fact, I didn’t even carry over my Fuck you, dude energy over to the next hole. 10 minutes of it was sufficient, and I ended up posting a pleasant 84 on a day that contained a chunk of positive interactions.
All that accounted for, I did legitimately like my dalliance with serious competitiveness, even if it was mostly manufactured. After all, that’s what the GOATs do, right: Take a throwaway comment and act as if it’s the single most insulting quote ever? Not that I’m a GOAT and not that this’ll be my new norm, but shoving it on someone can be fun.
And thank GOD I didn’t have too much club, by the way.
