A Day with the Hucks

Roybob’s Book on Golf: The Hucks, A Golfer’s Divine Comedy, and a Religious Philosophy of Golf

Huck Tales


A Day with the Hucks [1]

The day is Friday, a golf day.  The Hucks don their battle gear, drive to Golden Eagle, and order either tall alcoholic smoothies or energy drinks.  Most players show up around noon.  Tee times on Fridays begin at one o’clock.  Rain, sun, hot, or cold — it matters not — we are “playing golf today, my friend.”

After we arrive, we head to the range and hit some pellets.  We finish our warm-up routines on the practice green where, while stroking some “shorties,” we exchange pleasantries with each other.  “You’ve got no game whatsoever.”  “You are absolutely the worst player at the club.”  “I can’t believe you still want to play after your round last week.”  “You should clean out your locker and take up bowling or fishing.”  “Why don’t you just give me the money now; you know you’re going to lose.”

At 12:50 p.m., I ring Smokey’s bell and yell, “Let’s go.” Players secure their bags and drive their golf buggies up to the box. Everyone has decorated his shiny white egg for the purpose of identification, and each player tosses his egg to Corby who arranges them in a nice rectangular pattern so that the group knows how many players are present and how many threesomes, foursomes, or fivesomes will be required.

Since I do the scoring and make sure the monies are collected, I go off first, usually with Ricky Bobby, J. K., and Fuji. Next, hitting it right down the middle, Corby leads his group of Rotundo, Burger, and Gator. The middle groups may be a hodgepodge made up of the likes of Druseppe, Scratchy, Bobby Bob, Gary, Tuna, L.A., Jeffrow, Ninja, Joe, Hendeka, Tequilla Bill I, Tequila Bill II, Jimmy, Timmy, Big Spoon, Tea Spoon, Fresh, Lenny, Dessi, C.P., Wayno, Nervous Steve, Howie, Hughbie, Horak, Metro, Ernesto, Joycee, Brucee, Schnitzel, and the Woodman. In older days, Dallas, D.J., Big Sexy, Guzz, Slammy, Bootie, and Bulldog would be among the group. The last foursome includes Dr. J., Ronnie B. Good, Doc, and Rain Man. Rain Man always goes last.

Players select their favorite weapons and whack away. Balls fly. One slices right of the cart path and lands on the top of a house. Another is a quail-high quacker, reaching the range on the left. Some find the bunker to the left of the fairway. Some find the trees on the right. A lucky few find the short grass. From these spots come pitch-outs, hooks, draws, fades, cuts, slices, and even hosel-rockets. Someone always hits the big ball first, laying sod over his egg. Once the players find the green, there follow yips, yanks, pulls, pushes, shoves, rams, jams, bombs, snakes, and “make-oes.”

After completing the first hole, those who play without alcohol enjoy another energy drink, others pop their second “brewski” (the fourth for Joe and Ricky Bobby), and still others take a sip of their Bloodies or Crowns. The anxious ridges begin to grow smooth, and the strokes become silkier. Everyone grinds onward. By the third hole, we have heard Joe declare “JIHAD!” against his entire wolf group; and, by the fourth hole, we have heard the haunting voice of Ed McMahon. By the sixth hole, everyone has heard Fresh yell, “HAMMER!,” and by the eighth hole, though the course is nowhere near an ocean, everyone swears he has heard a porpoise.

At the loop, everyone compares front-nine results.[2] Hucks who are playing well tell their partners, “you’re killing the squad.” Schnitzel yells to Rain Man, “You’re terrible!” Rain Man struggles to control his cart as he peels his second banana. Doc lights up his third La Gloria cigar and scans the skies to see if the Life Flight helicopter is on its way. If Life Flight does not appear, everyone knows that Wayno will win money. All press onward, trying not to commit homicide against their partners.

Over the summit lies the seventeenth, “THE BALL BUSTER,” a lengthy par three featuring a green cushioned by bunkers on two sides and water on three sides.  Some are on their third orange drink, others have enjoyed a dozen barleys, and a few are wearing a little Crown Royal. Conquering or playing through their fears, players make the most of the seventeenth. On the par five eighteenth, we try to miss the giant magnolia in the left center of the fairway and the aqua all the way down the right side.

When the players finish, they report their scores to me, pay their entry fee, and hope for a taste of the dust. They sit back, burn a cigar, and consume a beverage or two. All are sad when the day must end, but Sunday soon follows. The Hucks will do it all again. Rain Man will call the pro shop and ask, “What time does the 11:50 group tee off?”


[1] I owe some of this account to a Huck known as Doc.
[2] “The loop” refers to holes ten, eleven, and thirteen, holes that go back and forth beside one another.

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Roybob’s Book on Golf: The Hucks, A Golfer’s Divine Comedy, and a Religious Philosophy of Golf

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