Par for the
Course
by Eric Miller
"Looks a
bit rustic, my father-in-law said," frowning
as he looked out over the golf course to which I
had brought him.
"I knew
you'd like it," I said with a smile.
"Does
rustic mean I like it?," he wondered aloud,
before screaming "Watch where you're going;
you almost killed us," as the golf cart
jerked forward, crashing into a boulder.
"Don't
worry, Dad. The only place you have to worry
about getting killed is on your scorecard. I own
this course."
"Really
now, and how much money is that ownership worth?"
"Well, I
think we should bet twenty dollars a hole, if you're
willing to give me three strokes on each one."
"As well
as on a par three?"
"Okay,
Dad, just give me two strokes on a par three,"
I said magnanimously.
"Well,
that’s more like it. You're on!"
"Okay,
Dad, you tee off first."
"Where?"
"Right
here; right where we're standing."
"There's
nothing here. I don't see any markings."
"That's
because it's rustic, Dad, remember?"
"Where's
the hole?"
"Out
there."
"I don't
see it," he complained.
"Duh, Dad,
it's just a little hole in the ground. How
do you expect to see it from here?"
"Isn't
there a pin and a flag?"
"Well,
then it wouldn't be so rustic, would it?"
He swung a
fairway iron. On the downswing, he hit an unseen
rock just below the surface, which caused him to
drop his club.
"I'm
taking a Mulligan," he proclaimed.
"Did we
agree to Mulligans?"
"I'm
taking one; get over it," he growled. "Your
shot," he said, after he hooked his Mulligan.
"That's one," I heard him say, as I
swung and missed. "Two, three, four,"
he said, matter-of-factly, as I swung and missed
repeatedly.
My father-in-law
quickly abandoned his clubs and began to kick the
ball toward the unmarked holes. It was hard to
tell which was the cup, and which was just a
depression formed by a cow hoof. At the end of
nine holes, he looked at me in disgust.
"This is
not a golf course. Get me out of here!"
"Well,
let's settle up on the scoring."
"I win;
you lose. It's as simple as that," he stated.
"Don't
forget all the strokes you gave me,"
I reminded him gently.
"Right,
let's see. Well, even with that, you still lose."
"What was
your score?," I asked.
"Better
than yours," he growled.
"How much
better?"
"It's
better, that's all that matters."
"But don't
forget that my handicap is double infinity?"
"It doesn't
count," because I gave you all those strokes."
"Even if
you gave me an infinite number of strokes, it
wouldn't equal my double infinity handicap. Give
me twenty dollars, and we'll call it even."
"No, you
owe me twenty dollars for each of nine holes. You
owe me $180.00."
"I would
like to yield to your infinite wisdom, but I
humbly, infinitely, doubly, and indubitably
disagree with your scorecard calculation."
"Which is
just par for the course for you," my father-in-law
observed.
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