Wednesday, 27 April 2011
I watched as he placed his tee and ball on the green mat, holding them together in one gloved hand. Just like a pro.
He lined up his club to the ball, wiggled his hips, two short fake stabs, a long back-swing then whoosh-wack!
The ball left his club vertically, ricocheted off the roof, clanged into his bucket spilling the fifty or so balls it held. He ducked and took a step back onto the rolling avalanche. His feet whipped out and he hit the golf-ball strewn ground flat on his back. I missed the actual impact as I involuntarily flinched and closed my eyes for a millisecond. But the sound and groan were unmistakable: it hurt.
His three wood landed a second or so after he did. Seemingly attracted by things spherical, the heavy club caught him squarely in the testicles. He groaned again.
It’s a true measure of my maturity that I fell about laughing before checking to see if he was alright.
He was. Is.
Nothing broken other than his resolve to be the next Arnold Palmer.
He may, Lord help us, breed again.
Every so often, during the rest of yesterday, I’d think back, especially to the point where Alan hung in the air for a split second before hitting the ground and being assaulted by his own club. Each time I did I’d chuckle. Later that evening I started to laugh, slightly hysterically, at the vision until my stomach hurt.
But guess what: I slept like a baby last night for the first time in ages.
Laughter really is the best medicine.
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