As with many aging individuals, Donald Senior resents God. He blames him for the passing of his late and dear wife. Childishly believing that maybe God awoke that morning; Ate breakfast, brewed some coffee, fired up a quality cuban and sat back in his study. Wearing a white smoking jacket and cravat – meticulously planning his beloveds demise.
To pass his days of pain and misery Donald Senior plays golf.
Donald arranges a ‘4 ball’ with three other golfing chums at a rather prestigious club in south Manchester. The boys are familiar with each other so the banter begins immediately.
As golf is a non-contact sport, a large proportion of the damage is done in the mind. Players trade mental blows, combinations of cerebral jabs and emotional uppercuts and hooks that shake your confidence. Never forgetting that defence is as important as attack.
We Tee off at day break. Its a beautifully clear day and the ground has a misting of dew. Donald is the first to go. We listen to his pre-match excuses and grumblings about a sore shoulder and his bad back . . .yada, yada, yada!(boring). He takes an age to finally produce what can only be described as ‘a pathetic shot’. In the golfing world we referred to these types of shots as a ‘Sally Gunnell’ (an ugly runner . . . sorry Sally!). He had pushed the ball right into a grass verge which is separating the fairways.
His ball was in danger and he knew it!
He then takes a new ball and plays a second provisional shot (3rd) and behold the same happens again! Another pathetic attempt! With 2 balls now in danger and frustrations running high, he is forced to take a third ball and yet another shot (5th). The underhand comments and sniggers begin. Even his own partner is making it apparent that he is finding Donald Senior intolerable.
Unbelievably, in an unlikely turn of misfortune, against the odds it happened again. At this point, Donald knew that the job was f*cked! We continue to play our shots, then as a group we make our way down the fairway accompanying Donald to retrieve and play his 3 balls. To our amusement and Donalds dismay, none of the balls were retrievable. In fact, not one of them were to be seen. How was this even possible? The balls were bright green! Maybe they’d disappeared into the Bermuda triangle of golf balls.
Donald Senior was as discombobulated as we were. But his confusion soon turned into rage. Like his estranged balls, he turned rather green and his eyes were as black as thunder clouds. In a hulk like fashion he began to scream with all the hate and fury he had buried deep within him. Shaking his clenched white fists at the sky, club in hand, he bellowed “GOD YOU’RE A C*NT!!!”.
The words pierced the atmosphere, they echoed off the trees and reverberated back at us with force and vigor. We all fell silent. The 4 ball behind us fell silent. The 4 ball on the green in front fell silent. The birds on the trees fell silent. We couldn’t un-hear what we had just witnessed. We were all just stood there awkward in the shame that he had created. Everyone’s eyes fell upon Donald and were staring at him dumbfounded. Did he just call God a c*nt? Did he? Not only did he break societal decorum, he had obliterated all the rules and etiquette of the course and the game itself.
I felt sad for Donald Senior for being so blocked. It must be very vexing hating something you disbelieve. The fact of the matter was; whilst Donald carried so much anger and hatred with him, he was never gonna win at anything in life, let alone a game of golf!
I broke the silence. The words just fell out of my mouth. . .
“It’s not Gods fault you’re shit at golf!” and in full view of Donald Senior i looked at the sky “Thank-you god!” in reference to our victory!