I Need to Wash My Balls

Yesterday was a bit chilly so instead of heading for the pool we decided to make a trip into Ocala. This was due mostly to the fact that Robin was in need of a “chuchkies” (bric a brac) fix for the motorhome.  We found this neat store called Hobbylobby which is a combination of Michaels and Pier 1 Imports. This store had more stuff than I had ever seen in my life.  We killed a couple of hours there and made it back just in time for our 4 o’clock tee time at the Summerglen Golf Course.  This course is but a mere two miles down the road from our RV resort.  It’s a lovely place situated amongst and between a new housing development.  All the houses are pretty much the same but for the fact that you get your choice of a whopping five different colors.  Oh, the imagination of American homesite developers.

Since we’re not scratch golfers we try to make a late tee time so the two of us can go out sans partners.  By doing this we can take mulligans at will, move the ball when desirous, or take gimmees on the green when the putt is definitely long not to do so.  While carting out to the first tee, my mind, as is usually the case, started to wander.  My wife says I go off to a place called “Larryland”, which can be both dangerous and startling in the thought process sense of things.  I began thinking about the various quips that one would hear on a golf course that are quite acceptable, but nevertheless would be appalling in normal conversation.  Allow me to explain. Prior to teeing off on number #1 a man in a cart drove up to us and ask if “we minded if he joined us for a threesome”.  Not at all, I said.   And then I thought about his statement.  After that Robin and our guest hit their tee shot. Now it was my turn. I was having trouble with my glove and found myself stating that “my hands are so sweaty I can’t get a good grip”. There you have it again. Perfectly fine for a golf course but such earthy language would not be good in mixed company.
While waiting on tee #3 I was gazing at our guests’ bag and clubs.  I was amazed at what I was seeing in his bag and said to Robin,  “look at the size of his putter”!  She just glared at me.  And then again in the middle of the fairway on hole #5,  I found myself giving Robin non-heeded advice once again.  “Keep your head down and spread your legs a bit more”!  And she did, driving her tee shot almost as far into the fairway as mine.  Without thinking I said,  “you really wacked the hell out of that sucker”.  Neither she, nor I, nor our guest, Robert, thought too much of the quips.  But when taken out of context, the can seem quite amusing.  Robert, a retired banker from Iowa, had to leave us on hole #7 as his wife was preparing a barbecue for expected company.  You see, he was a tenant in one of the lovely pastel duplicates that adorned our surroundings.  As we bid adieu, he told me he needed to stop at the pro shop as “he had just bent his shaft” after smacking the hell out of that last one. And we weren’t the only ones utilyzing this sort of King’s English.  I seem to remember hearing Robin tell me after a paltry drive that I “had a nice stroke but my follow through has a lot to be desired”. Imagine that. So here we are at the last tee. The wind has picked up considerably. The sun is starting to fade behind the clouds in the western sky.  There is a calm over the course.  The evening is drawing nigh and Robin is beginning to shiver. Her look is a cross between dour and that little-girl pleading that is hard not to give into. With a nod of her head she almost begs.  Can I hurry it up a bit and get this last hole in.   And without any thought given whatsoever, I counter with, “hold on, I need to wash my balls”. And off in the cart we scurry to finish the hole.  Never once did we give thought to the spoken words that might blush one in a normal missive. Oh, to be in Larryland.  GL