…Pete’s sake! Or you can insert your favourite swear there.
Yesterday saw the first annual (so we hope) Comic’s Golf Tournament at Dentonia Golf Course. This was going to be fun since not only did it happen to be a great day out, it gave me to get reacquainted with my golf clubs that have been on loan to fellow comic Brian Hope for as long as I can not remember. It seems the clubs missed me. A lot. To the point that they barely recognized me or the game that they were supposed to be a principle role in, at least in my hands, anyway. The course is a par three course making it easy for us all to play through at a decent clip. That was the theory, anyway.
Brian swung by and picked me up and we got to the golf course with about 45 minutes to spare before tee time. Over a beer and hotdog lunch, we got our foursome sorted out which included Brian and I (both using my clubs) with fellow comic Dave Tsonos and booker Ed Smeall. Good news: I knew and enjoyed everyone in my foursome. Bad news: We had to start the tournament as the first group. Brian and Dave I knew/figured that they played regularly. Ed stated he had played twice in 20 years, and my game…well, my long game is crap, and my short game is worse. My first shot ended up about 11m from the tee. Good stuff. This is where I began to picture headliners like Mike Wilmot and Derek Edwards picking up snapped-in-half golf clubs and hucking them my way as I go looking for my 17th ball that I’ve lost in the rough since the fifth tee. Thankfully that didn’t happen since the teams appeared to be evenly weighted. Some good, some bad, some like me.
Then there was the sun and the heat. Twenty-eight degrees in the shade and never have I regretted the decision of a black T-shirt ever. The water and beer we were drinking left us in sweat as soon as it got into us. At one point I looked down and noticed that I was not only giving my T-shirt a soppy-salt-stained perimeter, but I was beginning to sweat through my shorts. Given my shots, it could have been half heat, half flop sweat. Thank God/Buddha/Mohammed that I had a ball cap (equally sweaty and salt-rimmed), and SPF-45.
We finished the day at Gabby’s for prizes distributed by comic and organizer Bobby Keele, who I discovered came from the Kingston-side of the (613) area code, and who was the first live comic headliner that I’d ever seen…in 1988. When the prizes came out, I received the most prized of prized, “Most Honest Golfer”. Pretty hard to not be honest when you get to the green using all your par shots. Meh. The bottle of wine was appreciated anyway, though to be honest, I would have been happy just leaving with the extra balls I found in the rough as I attempted to fish out a quarter of my shots.
Two things have come from yesterday. I’m feeling pretty stiff today, and failure tastes like Sauvignon Blanc. Brian, I want my clubs back.