Page 65 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
“What do you mean?”
“Well, not football, obviously you’re great at that. You can bowl, you can golf, I’ve seen your swing at softball games. So, what can’t you play?”
He thinks on it for a minute. “Hoop.”
That makes me happy. I’m a decent hoop player, so maybe I could beat him. I make a mental note to have that be our next sport outing.
We drink our beer in silence, still waiting for the guys ahead of us to clear out. There aren’t very many golfers taking this game seriously. Most of us are, however, taking the beer drinking seriously. There are a lot of past and present Seabirds Players here as well as muckety-mucks that paid a shit-ton of money to play with them. We are supposed to have two such muckety-mucks with us, but they are late.
“Gregor, my man.” I hear from a distance, the voice sounding vaguely familiar. I turn to see who is approaching.
No fucking way.
None other than Wimpycock is climbing out of the golf cart and walking toward us. Awesome, now I get to see him all day today and then again tonight. I can tell the moment he sees it’s me.
“Oh.” Dimplecock stops suddenly, his friend trailing behind almost bumping into him. “I knew this was a charity event. I just didn’t realize the actual charities would be here.” He looks at me when he says it.
Is he dissing me?
“That motherfucker is dissing me,” I mumble to Gregor.
“Stay calm, brother. This is a nice shindig, can’t have you causing trouble,” he says.
“I’mnot the trouble,” I say back.
Hunter, as I’ve decided to refer to him as from here on out today, in hopes of seeing him in a more civilized manner, reaches out to shake Gregor’s hand. He does not do the same with me. He then introduces his friend. “This is Andrew Freeman, CEO of . . .” He blabs on about how important his friend is, but I tune him out. I don’t care who his friend is or what he does. I’ll be doing well if I remember his name and address him appropriately, so disillusioned with my day of fun and sun and beer with Gregor am I.
Andrew turns to shake my hand. His grip is limp and clammy. I repress the urge to shudder.
How does Tabatha put up with this life?
They’ve already taken their tee shot from the first hole and are now caught up with us. I chug the remainder of my beer—barely registering what it tastes like—and put my commemorative pint glass in my cup holder of the golf cart, then wait my turn. Because this is the first hole that we are playing together, we randomly pick the order. It’s a 163-yard par-3, that shouldn’t be too bad to start. I think.
Andrew leads off, choosing a 6-iron. His shot is straight and the ball flies about 160 yards onto the green, seeming to land close to the pin since he’s smiling and Gregor is patting him on the back. Next up is Gregor, then Hunter, and finally, me.
I do not want to embarrass myself in front of Hunter, but I fear that is exactly what I will do. My pride is at stake. My manhood. Every fiber of my masculinity is on display to be judged and found not worthy.
I step up to the tee box and tee my ball up. I try to do it one-handed like Gregor does, but the first time the ball rolls off, so I’m forced to use two hands to get it to stay on the tee.
My first swing misses the ball entirely. I whiff.
“Practice swing,” I call out.
“You were at the tee,” Hunter says.
I turn to him. “Does that mean I can’t take a practice shot?”
“Yes.”
Dick.
I step up to the tee, do a little forward press to release some tension, setup and take another swing. There’s a rewarding feeling in my body when the club connects with the ball. My mid-section arcing in just the right way, my feet turning, the club stopping before it hits me in the back. I feel like Tiger-freaking-Woods.
Take that, Hunter!
My ball soars into the air. Victory is mine! I don’t even wait for the ball to drop before turning and smirking at Hunter. He chin-bobs toward the green. I swivel back to watch my ball, devastated to see it’s traveled about thirty yards over the green. I’ve completely overshot the hole. In fact, I’ll probably have to re-tee my ball, the idea of which is mortifying. Gregor pats me on the shoulder and mutters in my ear, “Don’t worry, it happens to the best of us. Next time, try hitting a six iron instead of a driver.”
I wait until we are in the cart and heading down the hill before saying anything. “Can you just take the remainder of my turns for me, man?”
