It happened on the 13th hole. Until that moment I was having one of my best games ever. I was stepping backwards to get out of my wife’s way. I didn’t want to interfere with her putt.
The ground seemed level behind me as I stepped, stepped, slowly stepped backwards but the ground wasn’t level. I tripped over a small hilly section, lost my balance and went stumbling backwards and, trying to regain my feet and not fall (accompanied by the laughter of the universe) I swung my arms out; tried to get my feet under me in order to right myself but none of that happened.
I fell (oh, so pathetically) into the bushes surrounding the hole. The damn 13th hole. The unlucky 13th hole.
According to my beloved wife, I went all octopussy, my flailing arms all over the place, with my herky-jerky legs attempting to do the impossible – correcting my fall and regaining my balance.
I hit those bushes hard. Branches cut the back of my neck (one even stuck in there – a small one that still hurt like hell and made me bleed a lot). I slammed my knee to the ground and cut it; my shoulder slammed the bush’s main stem and still hurts me now as I write this.
I was down. I was so down. I was just happy that the entire world was not there to see this “fat man” go down. When fat men fall, it is funny. I know that. I do know that. And you can’t deny that either.
My wife the Beautiful AP came running over to me. I was trying to lift myself up and out of the bushes. “Let me help you,” she said. “Let me help you.”
“I’m fat. I’m heavy,” I said.
“Hey, can I help?” asked a man who came running over to our hole. I was still flopping on the ground trying to stand up.
“Oh, oh, thank you,” said my beautiful wife.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” I said. I wasn’t okay. I was trying to be okay to diminish the torment of going down and looking idiotic in front of this man.
“I’m a lifeguard,” said the man. He was in great shape. Tanned and good looking. On the other hand, I was fat and flopping-flapping on the ground.
“I’m a lifeguard too,” said my wife.
“I just finished swimming a two and a half mile ocean race,” said the good-looking tanned lifeguard.
“I’m only a pool lifeguard,” said my wife.
“I’m an ocean lifeguard,” said the tanned, good-looking in-shape creep.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I can get myself up.”
So I did get myself up. Despite the tanned, good-looking lifeguard wanting to walk me off the course, I was able to leave without the bastard’s help.
I say this and I say this with all manner of conviction. I will never play miniature golf again!
[Read Frank Scoblete’s Confessions of a Wayward Catholic! Available on Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]