Golfing With Girls

 

This week’s hilarious excerpt from Money, Guns, and Lawyers is called Golfing With Girls. Golfing with girls, as every golfer knows, makes for a vastly different experience on the course. This was no exception. Which is why men don’t usually like to golfing with girls. Here we go:

 

“So, tell me, Doc, how much money are you prepared to lose on the golf course tomorrow?”

Doc liked that. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

Gloria asked what we were laughing about. After listening to our bullshit for a couple of minutes, she said, “Chantal and I shall come along as referees.”

I said, “Sorry, amor, they don’t have referees for golf.” Between us? I wasn’t really sorry.

“Okay then, umpires.”

“They don’t have those, either.”

“How about sexy women?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Doc.

As a rule, guys didn’t want ladies around when they golfed, sexy or not. Then again, you didn’t see a lot of sexy women on a golf course. They’re about as rare as captured neutrinos. The few women you did see were terrible golfers. Also, incredibly slow players. The few exceptions played on college teams or in the LPGA and made me look like a hacker—again, not something that motivated me to play with them. But how could I say no to Gloria? So far, I hadn’t found it possible. But then, she gave much more than she took.

So I said, “Sexy ladies would be a great innovation for golf.”

Doc took his golf seriously, but with Chantal sitting right there, he had no choice but to agree. . .with one small catch. “As long as they just want to ride.”

Why is why we had a gorgeous seatmate riding next to us instead of each other. The only problem? Wait, better make that the first problem—they wanted to drive.

“You sure?” I asked.

Gloria looked over the cart. “How hard can it be?”

“It’s just that there are certain rules. . .”

“Please, amor, I’m a better driver than you.”

That was true, but it wasn’t saying much. My reputation as a driver, none too good to start, took a real nose dive when I had a head-on collision and gridlocked the entire city of Tijuana. Something most of Mexico had seen on Primer Impacto.

“A golf course has different rules.”

“I see the little roads.”

“Those are called cartpaths.”

“Bueno. I see the cute little cartpaths, but I don’t see the problem.

Chantal agreed. “What’s next? Don’t let women vote?”

Sensing a revolution, I held up my hands. “You win.”

The ladies followed us onto the first tee box. As I teed up they stood behind me for a better look. Or else to get in my peripheral vision and sabotage my swing.

“Don’t stand there,” I said.

“Why not?” asked Gloria.

“Because I can see you.”

“If you don’t like the way I look,” teased Gloria, “I can find someone who does.”

You can see why I wasn’t thrilled to have the ladies along

I said, “Quit laughing, Doc.” Then, “That’s not the point, Gloria.”

“What is?”

“Well, it’s hard enough to hit a golf ball without someone moving around behind you.”

“How hard can it be?” asked Chantal, mystified. “The ball is sitting on a stick. It’s not even moving.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Gloria laughed. “If you can’t that little ball, Mikey, you need to find a new sport.”

I sighed. “Just do me a favor. Move over there.”

“How’s this?”

“Fine.” I tried to re-center, get my focus.

With the girls giggling, it wasn’t possible. Taking a deep breath, I addressed the ball and got into my stance. It was a par-4 with a trap on the right about 230 yards out. No problem. With my draw, I’d aim at the trap and end up in the middle of the fairway with a short iron left to the green. At least that was the plan. And it might’ve worked if Gloria didn’t start laughing during my backswing.

As I watched my ball land in the trap, I said to Gloria, “What’s so funny?”

“You should’ve seen your face; you looked so serious.”

“You know, it’s not too late to go shopping or something.”

“No, this is fun.”

Maybe for her.

“You’re supposed to be quiet while we swing.”

“Why?”

I sighed again.

“Fine, we’ll be quiet.”

And they were; which is why Doc smacked one down the middle.

“Vamos!” said Gloria, enjoying her dual role as chauffeur/sexy nuisance.

She drove us down the cartpath and stopped across from my trap. Which was on the far side of the fairway about fifty yards away.

“Why are we stopping here?” I asked.

“It’s the rules.”

Now she was the expert?

“You can drive on the grass.”

“If they wanted us to drive on the grass, amor, why’d they build these little roads?”

“Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“It’s better if I drive. That way you can relax and concentrate on your game.”

With her refusing to go anywhere, I didn’t see how it was better if she drove. Doc, tired of waiting, yelled, “What’s going on?”

“Tell Gloria it’s okay to drive on the grass.”

“It’s okay, Gloria.”

“Gracias, Doc,” said my lover and put her foot on the gas.

“Now it’s okay?”

“You said Doc was trustworthy,” said Gloria. Then, “Why are you smacking your head?”

When we eventually reached the trap, I reconnoitered the situation. It seemed my ball had run up the top of the trap, then rolled back down until it rested smack against the sod. Not what you’d call a good lie. With a shitty downhill lie, I’d have to stand with one foot buried in the trap and the other on the grass, smash a wedge into the edge of the sod, and hope to make contact with the ball without spraining a wrist or two. Also, hope to get up-and-down on the next two shots and save par.

I took a mighty backswing and managed to knock the ball all the way to the top of the trap—where gravity got ahold of it and rolled it back to my feet. Once there, it rested in the deep depression I’d made setting up my stance. So about four inches beneath the rest of the sand. An almost impossible shot.

Gloria found that hysterical. I looked over at Doc’s cart for sympathy. He knew what I was going through. Which is why he was laughing so hard.

It took me two more shots to get back into the fairway, and three more to get down for a triple bogey. Off to a good start! Meanwhile, Doc knocked his second shot ten feet from the hole and sank the pot. After one hole, I was four strokes behind. How was that even possible?

It went on like that throughout the match. When we got back to my place, Gloria said, “I’ve never heard you cuss like that before.”

“Yeah, well. . .”

“You should find another sport if you hate golf so much.”

I sighed.

 

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. If so, you’ll love Money, Guns, and Lawyers, which is packed with laugh out loud humor and a fun crime caper to go with it.