A Golfer’s Dvine Comedy, Part II

The Inferno

“Hole 2”

The second hole consisted of almost nothing but a great lake that was ablaze with flames. Thin ribbons of land, like a maze, wound their way through the lake and around to a green, and while the slivers of land were lined with masses of desperate souls scurrying about with little rods, no one was playing the game.

Bobby explained. “This burning lake, my wayward golfing friend, is Acheron, and these hapless captives spend their eternity as you see them, stretching forth their ball retrievers, hoping, in vain to recover a whitened sphere fit for the game. Without a ball they cannot play.”

I saw Hooha amongst those eyeing the lake for a ball.  I also spotted Robert and Howie, whose last names are shared. 

As I was looking to see if I recognized any others, a hoary old man with beastly hair paddled his way toward shore and cried, “Woe to you, you ball-less hoard, cursed to fish a lake that coughs up not its treasures. Part a path. I come for Jones and his misaligned companion.”

My guide and I passed through the forest of ball retrievers. The boatman identified himself as Charon and cautioned me to step lightly as the living weigh more than the dead. We boarded Charon’s boat, and not a chip away from shore, a whirlpool washed us to level three.

“Hole 3“

A sight not yet seen in this bewildering realm caught my eye: golf carts, burnt orange in color and decorated with yellow upright flames. The carts, however, did hardly move.

Bobby explained that this hole was reserved for those players who could not, in life, control their carts. Smashing trees, turning flips, swimming in lakes, rolling through bunkers, banging into all manner of things, animate and not, these drivers were a danger to all. Operating with reckless speed while alive, these drivers are now bound to wheels that move at the blazing rate of one inch per hour, and should the drivers steer toward danger, the carts slow to nothing. I saw Tequila Bill (the original man down), Man of USA, and a certain Destructo Spoon who found windshields and wheels as dispensable as stop signs.

At the end of the hole, Bob sat in the driver’s seat of an empty cart and invited me to join him. This cart, however, moved rapidly, and I became extremely concerned as Bob drove us over the rim of a chasm similar to the coffin bunker at St. Andrews. As we dived to the bottom of the bunker, the sand parted to reveal a path, and we soon arrived at the fourth.

“Hole 4“

Disembarked and walking forward, I heard an eerie moaning. The reason for the moaning soon became clear when I realized that the mouths of the mass of souls gathered on this level were plugged with corks that were clamped in by steel restraints. The muffled denizens would hit their shots and then proceed to moan. I needed help unraveling this enigma.

Mr. Jones explained, “While living, these souls could never shut their mouths, regaling and boring anyone they could find with every detail about the shots they hit. They explained what went wrong with every blow, why each ball behaved as it did, pretending actually to have control over their strokes. They daily discovered the secret of the game and felt compelled to share that secret. They knew everyone’s swing flaws and broadcasted the easy solutions. Now, however, these obnoxious souls can say nothing. All they can do is moan.”

At the end of the moaners’ hole, we stepped onto the back of a massive putter head, the attached shaft of which began a steady, guided descent to level five.

“Hole 5″

The commotion that met us at the fifth contrasted sharply with the moaning of the previous hole and far surpassed the point of distraction. Cheerful yells, vile curses, and raucous belly laughs overwhelmed a duller but steadier roar of ringing cell phones, cart radios, and conspicuous whispers. This hole, Bob informed me, is reserved for those who failed to observe golf’s quiet decorum. As they play, these souls are victimized by the same disturbing and deafening sounds they inflicted upon others. As we walked the hole, I heard high above the horde one who has a voice like Ed McMahon, another whose favorite number is One, and the King of the Hammer (who has mysteriously appeared on several levels of this golfer’s hell).

Eager to escape this ear slaughtering barrage, Bob rapidly led us to the exit, an elevator fashioned after a ball washer. The hollowed out plunger took us to level six.

“Hole 6″

When the door to the plunger-elevator opened, a hideously chewed up hole lay before us. Steep and overly abundant were the divots and ball marks that sprigged the fairway and green. Golfers in the fairway chopped away but were unable to liberate their balls from the quarry-like divots. Golfers on the green furiously whisked their putters back and forth but were unable to advance their balls due to the gargantuan marks peppering the green. Balls for both groups bounded up and down, round and round, and then back again from whence they came. I did not need my guide for commentary here. These souls are those who never bothered to repair their divots or ball marks. They never dropped sand or wielded a repair tool. They must now endure the hardships that they forced upon others.

Beyond the uneven ground, an enormous flagstick rose from an equally large hole. Mr. Jones walked over to the stick, flung himself on the pole, and slid down to the next hole. Like a fireman, I did follow.

“Hole 7”

After our descent, we came to a hole that consisted of nothing but a giant dark sand trap with a high marble topped green. The putting surface undulated like ocean waves and featured a constantly moving hole.

Bob once more explained. “This hole holds those who manicured not the bunkers. Confined for eternity in this rake-less desert, they flail at fiery red balls that fall back again and again into their own footprints. These souls must now suffer the pains and heartaches they inflicted on others.”

Near the green, we came upon the top of what appeared to be a kind of Ferris wheel. The carriages, however, looked like humungous sand scoops. Bob and I climbed into one of the scoops, and the turning wheel took us down to the next level.

“Hole 8“

The tee at the eighth was strangely quiet, and there were racks and racks of clubs: putters, drivers, irons, metals, and even hybrids galore. My guide informed me that this hole was reserved for the deliberators.

 

Thousands of players were amassed on the hole, and each appeared to contemplate a different shot.  

As the players chose their clubs, a process lasting quite awhile,
The landscape before them would beguile.

Compelled to choose another weapon for their attack,
Players found the landscape different yet again when they turned back.

The shots in life they so long delayed,
Never in this golfers’ hell will be played. 

Among these painfully thoughtful souls, I spied Los Angeles, the Bennett of Mud, the Whooping Crane, and a certain five-man Wolf group.

The green featured a massive hole, into which never a ball had fallen, and Mr. Jones beckoned me to follow his descent into the cup. Another slide zipped us to the final level of this golfers’ hell.

“Hole 9 “

At the bottom of the slide, the most overwhelming stench violated my nose, and Bob informed me that the ninth was reserved for cheaters, the worst of golf’s sinners.

Playing on the hole’s periphery, those who maintained their handicap too high were teamed up with those who maintained their handicap too low. Perfectly paired and matched, neither team was able to conquer the other. The eternal tie merely sent the players back to the tee again. I saw Larry of the Fort, Willie of the Fast Play, and Michael the Italian.

In a rounded hollow, around which the hole split into two fairways, were arrayed the vast and wicked lot of those who betrayed the ancient and royal game: those who noodled their balls, those who took overly liberal drops, those who grounded their clubs in hazards, those who took unrighteous putts, and all those who otherwise lied about their scores.

Those who had noodled their golf balls were having their procreative balls noodled in a not so friendly manner. Those who took overly liberal drops were being dropped to the ground at a level commensurate with the error of their drops. Those who grounded their clubs in hazards were themselves being grounded, nay buried, in hazards. Those who took unrighteous putts were raked by an instrument with teeth as long as the putts they gave themselves. Here they were ensnared in eternal torment.

The entire hollow and all those it contained were surrounded by a burning ring of fire comprised of huge golf tees that let out ferocious gasses. The flames wound their way, like serpents, among the crowd to assure that each abhorrent turncoat was equally scorched. It was this singeing of dead flesh that caused the stench permeating the bottom of hell.

There in the midst of this traitorous gang stood a giant with golden hair, his size having more to do with his notorious reputation than to his earthly height. He had six arms that were busied by six hands. The hand of one arm released a ball that emerged from the bottom of the giant’s slacks; another hand twisted fairway grass into a tee; another dropped ants from a baggie hidden in his pants pocket; yet another dropped a ball onto the green even though the green was surrounded by yellow stakes; another placed a ball two feet closer to the pin than where it was originally marked; and the sixth welded a putter that raked a four-foot putt into the hole. One of his feet kicked into the ground to create a tee, and the other kicked a ball into a better lie. From his mouth issued scores he never actually shot. All the vile cheaters sang his praise, “Noel, Noel, Noel!”

Climbing over the hairy flank of the giant traitor, my guide and I shifted our tilt and began an ascent to the surface of the earth. From a dank, dark tunnel we emerged at dawn of Moving Day, just in time to see the stars.

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The story of my journey through Purgatory and into Paradise is yet to come.