Playing golf in a hurricane, by (almost) Andrei Codrescu

It seemed like an innocent enough idea: go out and play some golf on a sunny March Saturday. I carefully packed my freshly-cleaned golf clubs into my car, along with a supply of fried pig fat, hot and spicy chex mix, jerky, and plenty of bottled water.

My good friend John would be there as well and things were looking bright in this world. I savored the thought of a perfect game, shooting par or below on every hole. I was going to be the hero, the one that old men would tell their grandchildren about for generations to come. They might even put up a plaque in my honor in the clubhouse, noting that I was the most talented player they had ever seen. I would be god-like, and remembered always in stories around golf clubhouses and campfires. It would be perfect.

I sped my car towards the course.

About three miles from leaving my house I noticed that there was a large amount of wind pushing my car from side to side. “This should pass quickly,” I muttered foolishly to myself.

It was about five miles later that the tumbleweeds clued me in. They were covering the road, as thick as mouse fur on a very very furry mouse. One that had been on mouse-fur steroids for quite some time. Some of the tumbleweeds were flying sideways, trying to attack my car like some sort of banshee with a very big chip on her shoulder. Many of them succeeded. I navigated my way slowly through the forest of tumbleweeds, trying not to hit too many of them, knowing it would be bad Karma to kill too many innocent dried up weeds, even though they were the size of small houses. I began doubt about playing today.

I ignored my inner thoughts that told me that playing today would be foolish at best and stupid at worst. Weighing the difference, I thought it best to proceed, plus John would be there, and he would expect to play, although he did not know that he was going to face the all time course champion, who would give no other man any quarter.

At this point I think it would be wise to fast forward to the end. The day was hellish, like something out of a Karl Rove autobiography. The wind never let up for a moment, and every shot had to be calculated adding 20 or 30 yards left or right, front to back, depending upon which way the hole was situated. The nearby freshly tilled farm fields provided a thick, constant wind full of dust, blowing so hard that at times you could not open your eyes for fear of them being sanded down like some sort of junior high shop class project. Visibility was down to about 50 yards at some times. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia, but was inappropriately dressed to play that role. Boxes from nearby construction sites ran across the course like midget monkeys on meth.

In the end, we endured, owing to our survival skills, junk food snacks, and not too many beers.

The next time we play, we will stay indoors and watch golf on TV, and eat the fried pig fat from our place in easy chairs with a side order of vodka. We will be the heroes that change the channel for the other clubhouse barflies. They may, after all, put up a plaque in our honor.