The Magic Tee

The air was brisk with the decent of Fall, the clouds that had threatened rain the previous day had dispersed to leave the sky clear, and the sun had woken early for one of the last days before winter causes it to rise later in the morning. The dew that still hung like spider webs on the fairways glistened as we loaded up our cart. Last Sunday was the perfect day for a round of golf. Yet, this day would produce events that eventually would change this author’s life forever. Or at least for about fifteen minutes.

The day started off like any other morning of golf. Pulling three different balls that had been found on the previous trip, and would certainly be lost by the fourth hole, out of my bag. Pulling out three tees, only one of which would get used since I had used the same tee for the last three outings. And the discussion of who would take the honors of being the first to step into the tee box and lose their ball.

The first hole went according to plan. John took the first drive and sliced it high and right into the trees. I took the following drive and topped the ball so that it bounced faithfully into the shallow creek that the clever people who laid out the golf course placed only fifty feet from the tee area. Beautiful. Pure magic. Thanks to my keen eye, John was able to find his ball among the leaves that had already decided that Fall was close enough and detached themselves from the branches. I, on the other hand, was already on my second ball of the game after only one shot. Five additional shots from John and six from myself found us on to the next hole with the mood for the day set.

The second hole didn’t go according to plan at all. John’s drive, though still veering right, landed on the edge of the fairway. Didn’t see that coming. My shot was actually straight, and though it went over a hill I could tell that it was also on the fairway. Weird. Yet, the day got back on track when after searching for ten minutes among the leaves, that had found their way from the rough to the fairway, and the seven million walnut shells that littered the ground I finally came to two conclusions. Not only was I certain that I could feel the beady eyes of hundreds of obese squirrels watching me, but I was on my third ball in only two holes. I dropped my ball and, with the help of two good fairway shots, bogied the second hole.

The next few holes went normally. On the par three I hit a nice drive off the tee to land on the edge of the green, but talked myself out of a par my putting three times.
Self: “See how that green is tilting slightly to the right?”
Me: “I’ve played this hole before and it’s never tilted to the right.”
Self: “Yeah, but with the acceleration of the Earth’s rotation and that earthquake in Antarctica last year it’s caused the green to tilt since two weeks ago.”
Me: “Okay. I can see that. Should I hit it with a little speed?”
Self: “No. Remember, you have a two mile an hour breeze coming from behind you. That should give it some extra push.”
Me: “Your right. I’ll play it safe.”

With another bogie in tow we moved on. Yet with each drive I could feel a disturbance growing in the air around me, like a bending of natural laws almost to the breaking point. The shots were coming off normal. High and to the right on the par five. Low, left, and in the woods on hole number five causing another lost ball. Everything seemed to be going right. I worried, however, about the health risks toward the local squirrel population. With each hole we finished I couldn’t help but notice the copious amounts of walnut shells that littered the course. Someone should notify PETA and get those guys on some weight loss plan or something.

It was on hole number eight that the tension that had held heavy over us all day finally came crashing down on me. As I swung my club I could feel the ripping of the space time continuum around me, and as I struck the ball I felt a feeling in my gut that only a few deep feelers in the world can feel with all their feeling. I faithfully watched the small, white ball lift itself into the air with grace and poise, and promptly enter the foliage of the surrounding trees, but as I held my follow-through I shed a tear. I could tell without even looking that my loyal, wonderful, magical tee….had broken. The tee that had survived with me through three consecutive outings. The tee that I managed to find after every drive, even if I couldn’t say the same for my ball. I finally looked down, after John poked me a couple of times with his driver, and saw the tiny broken shards of my tee. (At least I assume it was my tee. There were thirty other broken tees lying around.) With the destruction of my faithful companion, I felt a little of my soul disintegrate and float away on the two mile an hour breeze of the ether.

I did find some peace that day. On the last hole I brought out one of the tees that had lain dormant and unused from my bag, and hit a 250 yard drive straight down the fairway. It was the most beautiful drive I had ever hit in my life. And I knew that it was my old tee giving the last of itself to its brother so that I might finish the game with my head high.

Then I woke from my daydream and found the 75 yard ball that I had tanked into the woods and used a four iron to place it twelve yards from the green, and finished the game with a 67 on nine holes.