More misplaced pride

Once upon a time, I went miniature golfing with a mixed group of friends (both adult and child sized). I was putting along, having a grand time, when I noticed the uneven pour of the concrete sidewalk. With full knowledge of it’s unpredictability, I decided to bounce my ball on said sidewalk. Just as I predicted, the ball went shooting off on a path skewed from gravity’s well. Thanks to my cat-like reflexes, I was able to snatch the ball out of the air before it bounced off into oblivion.

As it turns out, I also own this bridge that I’d be willing to part with – for a very reasonable price.

No, it wasn’t my cat-like reflexes that failed me, it was my human length arms. You see; a golf ball has a relatively small diameter – as balls go. This relatively small diameter lends itself to a whole heapin’ helpin’ of bad bounces on an uneven surface – like a hastily poured concrete sidewalk. So while my reaction was easily sufficient to grab the ball – the darn thing shot off nearly parallel to the ground. I’d need the reflexes of a cat (check) and the arms of an orangutan (Houston, we have a problem).

So it was that I was the first person in our motley crew to lose my ball. While I was close to the median age for our group, two of us were under eight – and I don’t mean that in a good way. And yet, strangely I felt this was a badge of honor. Not just anyone can lose a golf ball waiting in line. I takes someone special, dare I say truly gifted, to lose his ball waiting in line – and manage to have said ball leave the course altogether. Damn, I am good.