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Darren went shopping for golf clubs because his old ones broke. And by broke I mean he snapped all of them in half on his knee and threw them into the water hazard on Hole 12. It was an elongated process where he broke one, asked his caddy for another, broke another, and kept going until all that was left was a 3 Iron he had stolen from his brother-in-law on a boys weekend to South Carolina.
Looking back on the last five years, while waiting in line at Golf Galaxy, with a whole new set strapped over his shoulder and a price tag of $1775 awaiting him at checkout, he realizes that the boys weekend he took with Carl and Carl’s college buddies was the only good memory he had before Carl died of a disease known as Cirrhosis. Darren watched a middle-aged woman scream at the cashier, saying I am returning these clubs, what do you mean you won’t refund me because I wrote a check? Darren thought Who the hell writes checks anymore? And then the middle-aged woman stormed away from the cashier and on her way out the door knocked over a display case filled with the new Nuke golf balls—the ones with the liquid center Darren really wanted to try.
He paid for the clubs and picked up two balls that had rolled out the automatic door and put them in his pocket, figuring a little parting gift was in order considering how much he paid for the clubs.
The woman who knocked over the display case was my mother, btw. Her name is Denise and she has a condition known as hate in heart. That’s for another story.
Later, ten rum and cokes deep, Darren paced in his toolshed, staring at the Nuke golf ball wedged squarely in a vice. From the golf ball to the drill in his hand back to the ball back to the fresh rum and coke he had poured himself and back to the drill and back to the golf ball. He approached the ball, he had to try that liquid. What did it taste like? The drill whirring into the polymer created a sound that was god awful and the pressure on the ball was more than that on his head after a hangover. The POP on the ball after he breaks through to the gooey center is deeply satisfying. It tastes not great, and after a short sip he dumps the ball in the trash. All that effort.
He understands the ball now. He understands exactly how to go out there tomorrow, back to Hole 12, and hit a score way under par. He won’t be par for the course; he’ll be birdie for the course. He understands it and he can do it and he will.
The next day, Darren breaks the new set of clubs, this time on Hole 7, not even through the front nine. The caddy hands them to him one by one until the bag is empty, sinking to the bottom of the water hazard that players have named “Fuck Bog.” They stare at each other and Darren asks, “What’s your problem?”
The caddy says, “Just another day in paradise.”
Darren has a seizure and dies.
