Golfing a perfect 300

I golfed for maybe the fourth or fifth time in my life on Sunday. Mark Twain said, "Golf is a good walk spoiled." That Twain. What a cad. What a kidder. What a maroon.

He just didn't understand the game. I may be new at this, but I understand golf much better than Twain, now that I've played a full 17 and three-quarters holes.

Yessiirreee. The rules of golf are simple. The first one to 300 or to lose all his balls first is the winner.

I managed both.

It all started on the first tee. My stepfather, Jim, and I were paired up with a guy named Dick and his wife, whose name escapes me. Somehow I was picked to go first, so I teed the ball up and took a mighty swing. The club whistled through the air, struck the ball and went straight up all the way over to the women's tee, a good 15 feet in front of me.

"Fore!" I yelled.

"You want to take a Mulligan?" Dick asked.

"Um, well, uh, yeah, uh, sure, a Mulligan. Yeah, that sounds great," I said.

I had no idea what a Mulligan was, but apparently you just carry the ball in your pocket until you stepfather says its OK to put it back on the grass.

Golfing is expensive. It cost us $50 each plus $20 in balls. That's $70. But there are amenities. There's free cold water at some holes, and other holes have ponds where you can take a quick dip if you want. There was also a woman who drove around with a cart full of cold drinks. But I declined. I'm sorry ma'am, thanks but no thanks. I don't want to get bloated and logy. This here is a serious game.

The first hole, I shot something like an eight. That's what I wrote on the scorecard. Same for the second hole.

I'd give the ball a whack and it would go about 20 yards and then I'd give 'er another whack, and it would go into the water or into the trees. I lost eight balls in the first two holes.

"Hey, nice swing," Jim lied.

Dick was a good golfer. He hit the ball straight and hard, so we ditched him and his wife after nine holes.

We'd seen enough of that kind of play.

By then my score was right around 150, give or take a few Mulligans.

Jim then gave me some pointers.

"I don't know much about golf," he said. "But you'll hit the ball a lot farther if you stop using that putter off the tee."

He also told me to keep my head down, keep my arms extended and for God's sake, relax.

It worked. The ball went a lot farther, but it also went waaayyy off to the right.

"Where'd it go?" I'd ask.

"In the parking lot next to the clubhouse," he said.

"Again?" I said.

I did hit one nifty shot. I was in this patch of trees in this guy's front yard, and my game plan was to zip the ball through this little gap in the tree trunks out onto the fairway.

I addressed the ball, did a little waggle and took a mighty swing. The ball cracked off a tree trunk, went zinging backwards past Jim's head and dead center into the fairway about 30 yards behind me.

"Yep," I said. "Just like I planned it."

The last two holes were pretty close to water and I scared up a flock of ducks with a flurry of shots.

"Take 'em," I yelled as the ducks winged overhead. I put my three wood to my shoulder like a shotgun and made blast sounds.

Did I mention balls are a lot cheaper when your stepfather is buying them?

On the 18th hole, I hit three shots in the water, one after another. That was it. I was out of balls. I lost a baker's dozen.

"You got any more balls?" I asked, looking at Jim with puppy dog eyes.

"You're completely out?" he said.

"Done," I said, palms up.

He looked a little ill.

Fore!!!!!!!!!!!!