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Boogie On Golf
By Carson Cockman

Someone suggested something to me. They suggested that, with all the things that happen to me whilst I have attempted to play golf, I should maybe try tennis.

I am nothing, if not game. Well, I could be a gullible idiot but I’ll let you be the judge.

I dug around in my closet and found my trusty Ching-Wah Brand racket right where I left it 20 years ago. I found a tennis ball that had recently been used to provide my red-boned coonhound a chew toy. The fuzz was mostly gone but it would have to do.

I drove over to the War Memorial tennis courts and found a young man practicing his serve on the return wall. I asked him to play and he replied, “Sure thing, Pops!”

That jolted me a bit, but I am a master of psychological warfare. I have trained myself on countless golf greens to poke holes in my opponent’s ego at the perfect time. I saw through his wily ploy.

I could handle this whippersnapper.

The late morning was cool as we started warming up. My 50 year-old arms were working well. The creaking barely bothered my potential tennis victim.

As we practiced by smacking the ball back and forth, I noticed the sun was making the court a bit warmer.

The temperature was 95 degrees less than the temperature of the surface of the sun.

The young man insisted that I should serve first since I was the old guy.

I knew how to deal with that. I would simply dish out one of my famous rocket serves. That would show him just WHO he was dealing with.

I bounced the ball professionally. I wet a finger and tested the wind. I mentally calculated the speed of the prevailing trade winds and tossed the ball into the air.

I misjudged the rate of decent and smacked the racket into the pavement so hard that my eyeballs rattled.

“Practice serve, right?”

“Sure, Pops…Don’t overdo it.”

“Grrrrr.”

I flung the ball into the air with reckless abandon. I came down on it with the full weight of my body on my extended rock hard arm.

I struck the hapless tennis ball with the might of ten McEnroes times ten.

My arm felt funny as I made contact with the ball. No …well… not FUNNY funny…like a hilarious comic relief type moment.

FUNNY as in feeling like my arm separated at the elbow. I fully expected to see my lower arm sail across the net. I was wondering how I could return his backhand with only one arm.

Fortunately for me, my power serve looked more like a soft-serve ice cream cone being dropped by a two-year-old child. I think I want my mommy.

That is the thing about getting older. The memory goes first!

NOW! I remembered why I gave up tennis. It may have had something to do with my arm falling off when I was 30. I swore never to pick up a racket again. It took me six months to be able to pick my nose, right handed. Not that I would pick my nose or anything…it is a figure of speech…yeah…right...a figure of speech.

I just hope I can figure out a way to splint my arm so I can swing a golf club again.

"You're doing O-Tay, Pops!"


That may not be the worst of my worries. My mom may have to follow me around the golf course to help me get my boogies.

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For more golf humor, please visit author Carson Cockman's Blog Site.




© Copyright 2006 by Carson Cockman

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