Life at the Driving Range: The Fat Guy, The Short Guy, and the Thin Guy

As most of you know, and to those that are just getting to know me, I am a crap golfer.

I can admit that without being too proud too admit it, and the guys below me I almost hit each week could testify to my claim whole-heartedly. Although I am but a naive dilettante when it comes to this crazy sport, I do require certain things that all golfers need: A decent swing, a good short game, and above all, silence.

I got none of that last night.

I arrive at the range late, and thus, run into the Tuesday night log jam of Pros, Wannabes, and Posers, such as myself. We're a motley mix of various degrees in skill level, coordination, and recreational hazards waiting to happen. Yeah, I should be heading out with a helmet and body armour - but I sooooo do love to live dangerously.

I spot the line for an open patch to hit, and lo and behold, I run into The Fat Guy, The Short Guy, and the Thin Guy. Picture this: Fat Guy is by himself, followed by the empty spot, then Short Guy and Thin Guy hitting next to each other. I'm not exactly sure why they didn't just hit together, but people were coming up behind me, so I grabbed the open spot regardless.

Big, BIg, BIG MISTAKE on my part.

I settle my bag down, grabbing my 3 Iron. I take a few practice swings, stretch, and throw down a golf ball. Wind is blowing from the North, I adjust my weight, pull into my backswing
and --

"HEY! DO YOU GUYS WANT TO PLAY A GAME? LET'S PLAY A GAME!!!!!"

!!!CRINK!!!! I shank the ball about 2 feet from me, scratching a ton of astro-turf. Short Guy yelled through my swing.

With no other spots available, I go into my "happy place" as my ears are subjected to the worst conversation a-la "Who's on First" along with the inability to speak below 6 decibels:

Fat Guy: I'M AIMING FOR THE YELLOW FLAG!
Short Guy: WHICH YELLOW FLAG?
FG: THE YELLOW FLAG! NEAR THE RED ONE!
Thin Guy: THE RED ONE WITH THE GREY STRIPE?
FG: NO, THE OTHER ONE! WITHOUT THE STRIPE!
TG: I DON'T SEE IT!
FG: IT'S RIGHT OVER THERE!
SG: WHERE?
FG: OVER THERE! WHERE I'M POINTING!
TG: I STILL DON'T... OKAY, YOU MEAN "THAT" RED FLAG!!!

You starting to get the idea?

So the "Boys from MENSA" are trying to hit for distance, keeping score in a fashion that even Stephen Hawking can't calculate. In between turns, Fat Guy grabs a sip of his Big Gulp sized chocolate milkshake - that is dripping, mind you, all over the concrete - and burps while alternating between his sand wedge and 6 Iron - yeah, I should know: HE WAS ANNOUNCING IT EVERY SINGLE TIME!

Their balls were flying all over the place. Thin Guy had such a hard swing that his balls flew over the safety net. I could hear the "clink" of roof tiles where the balls impacted (the range is right by a residential neighborhood). When they weren't talking, they were laughing at each other like a band of hyenas doped up on Ritalin. The "cackling" sound from the Short Guy made me grate my teeth.

Again, all this felt like an eternity, and when they were quiet, I could squeeze in a few strokes that were right on. But alas, their presence was added Kryptonite to my mediocre golf swing. I was being pushed to my mental limits for sure. My muscles were tensing, and my grip was in a strangle hold. But I pushed on.

When they finally finished hitting all their balls (Thank the Lord!), I thought I'd finally be free.

Not yet.

As they're packing up their gear, they stop right behind me and have this wonderful, intellectual discussion about what they want to do later:

SG: What do you wanna do tonight?
FG: I don't know but I want to head to the gym first.

Stop right there - let me repeat that: Fat Guy with his own gravitational orbit that still has chocolate on his chin wants to hit the gym? Who does this guy think he's fooling?

TG: Yeah, but wherever we go, I want to grab a shower first.
SG: That means we have to back-track!
TG: So? He wanted to go to the gym!
FG: So what are we gonna do later?
TG: I still want to head home first.
SG: Then I think I might hit the gym too.
TG: When do you guys want to meet back up?

This exchange lasted about 10 minutes or so, but what really blew my mind was that they couldn't walk and talk about this, but instead HAD to stand 3 feet from me debating this as if they were trying to solve peace in the Middle East. Then, Short Guy couldn't stop yammering about his damn new iPod which Thin Guy REALLY couldn't get enough of... but soon, they drifted off in the distance.

And I was left with a lot of pent-up hostility.

I wanted to lose my cool, but since I didn't, I was left searching for a way to channel my "Range Rage". So I looked down, grabbed my 3 Wood, and started knocking the crap out of the golf balls. Screw the zen of golf, I needed to vent!

WHACK!
THWACK!
BAM!

Surprisingly, I'm driving balls about 170-190 yards out - very much to my chagrin. I took out the 5 and 8 Wood, and started bashing those about 150 yards (even rage doesn't make me improve THAT much).

As the rage subsided, I was finally left with the calm I seeked. I had purged the volcanic anger that was festering in me, and boy did I feel better.

My golf swing saved me last night.

And those 3 idiots.

They should thank my 3 Wood.

Super Winks... ;)