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08 November 2005 - 11:48 I was lucky enough to play golf at one of Montr�al's primo courses Le Challenger this weekend. It was about 6 degrees (C) when we tee'd off and the mist was gently rolling off the banks. If I didn't know I was in the middle of an industrial estate in Ville St Laurent, I would have sworn I was back in Scotland. Even better was the fact the I hand landed a free corporate ticket that included cart. So me and Z (my playing partner) ventured around this amazing course, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the pot bunkers and the perfectly manicured undulating fairways and the lightening-fast greens. Until we hit hole number 8. Where I hit a long, but slightly errant tee-shot which found it's way to the rough between the 8th and 7th. Meanwhile there were a bunch of guys teeing off on the the towards us... you can see the picture, there were a group of balls together... so I get there first, locate my ball. Check the other close ones around to make sure that it's mine. And I hit my next shot (A majestic 8 iron to the centre of the green). The other dudes roll up as I start to walk away. As I'm walking, one of them shouts something which I can't hear. So I turn around and walk back towards them, 8 iron in hand. He shouts again, but I have my toque (woolly hat) on and I still han't hear him that well. Then the slackjawed idiot in the cart says "You hit the wrong ball". See, that kind of shit makes my freakin' blood boil. What am I, a complete clutz? I kept walking towards him and I said, "Are you asking or telling me?" To which he responds,"I saw you hit it, man. You hit the wrong ball." "OK, guy. Tell me what ball I hit? What was the make and number?" It's not so much the challenge. I don't mind someone asking me if I'm sure I hit the right ball. Or even if they asked what type of ball I hit. Coz I'd tell them I hit a Nike 4, and that I checked the others to make sure. And that, sorry, I hadn't seen the other ball come down. No. It's when some jerk comes right out with that slack-jawed arrogance and that 'you're-an-asshole' expression to say "You're a fuckin' idiot who can't figure out what your ball is, so you just hit the first one you saw" (in not so many words) attitude. So he says. "Top Flite 1" I say, "No asshole - Nike 4 - you want me to hold your hand while we check?" Meanwhile the dude who thought he'd lost his ball, found it. Slackjawboy got back in his cart and drove off, not before dispatching the finger in my direction. My playing partner was already in cart and ready for the chase... I could see my trusty eight iron wedged nicely between that idiot's eyes. But I'm way too much of a pacifist. I'm normally a completely passive guy. Make love not war. Until I meet with ignorant stupidity. Not even stupidity. Just ignorance. I can't tolerate it. I can't tolerate ignorance when it comes to the basic stuff. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and the blood cover my eyes. Even picturing that pudgy dude in his black cap and windbreaker, makes my pulse quicken. And now I feel edgy. And a little surprised at myself. I'm so not an angry person who looks for opportunities to get angry. (You know what I mean, right - there are those guys in the metro or the subway or the East End or Verdun that are just looking around to make eye-contact so that they can start something) They kind of scare me. In that unpredictable way. Anyway - you get the picture - I've laboured the point long enough... AND! I three-putted for bogey after that. Yeah - it was an entry about nothing. I wanted to write it down and then revisit every so often and see if this dude would have the same effect... It's good stuff to use and hold onto!
   My life is rated NC-17. What is your life rated? |
