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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.”


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.

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

© Copyright 2006 by Carson Cockman

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