Balls All Turned Around the Wrong Way

Please be advised. This page does not reproduce the story or article in full. The full story or article is contained inRoybob’s Book on Golf: The Hucks, A Golfer’s Divine Comedy, and a Religious Philosophy of Golf.

Balls All Turned Around the Wrong Way

I motored my way to Golden Eagle one Sunday morning and began my preparations for a long practice section. My three-hour routine included procuring a cart, my clubs, a big basket of balls, and, then, driving to the far end of the range where the grass is better and the crowd is thinner. If the “cart boy” had everything set up for me when I arrived, I gave him a generous tip, recognizing that he had done something extra for me.   In previous years the “cart boys,” particularly the beloved Johnny Norton, would pick golfers up at their vehicles. That time had passed; and, so, I walked down to the cart barn.  When I arrived at the barn, I discovered that, while my bag was on a cart, there was no  basket of balls sitting on the floorboard.

I informed the “cart boy,” whom I shall refer to as Brain, that I needed a basket of balls for the other side of the range.  Brain responded, “I need all the balls for the font end of the range. I don’t have that many.” Bewildered, I asked, “What?” He repeated his statement that he needed all the balls for the front end of the range. I wondered to myself, “What’s wrong with people these days”? In my frustration I decided that I would resort to logic. “Brain, if I go to the front end of the range to hit balls, I will hit as many from there as I will from the far end of the range. In other words, you’re going to be out the same number of balls. You may as well give me the basket of balls I’m requesting.” Brain churned, but he did not get it. I walked over to the baskets, grabbed one, and made my way to the garbage bin full of balls. I scooped out a basket full of balls while Brain looked at me. As I lugged the basket to my cart, I inquired, “Brain, who do I have to talk to so that I don’t catch shit from a ‘cart boy’ when I ask for a basket of balls”? Brain did not respond. I plopped the basket on the cart’s floorboard, climbed in the driver’s seat, and headed to the far end.

By this time, I was more than a little irritated. I called the pro shop as I drove and informed a staff assistant about what had just occurred. She told me that the assistant pro would be in later and that she would let him know.

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The full version of this story or article is contained inRoybob’s Book on Golf: The Hucks, A Golfer’s Divine Comedy, and a Religious Philosophy of Golf.