I make my way down the fairway of the fifth hole. My drive is well placed, just off to the left and banked off of the forearm of the man in the group playing ahead of us. The same forearm that he used shortly thereafter in conjunction with his other forearm to make a series of gestures at me. I estimate the place where he had been standing, and a few yards away, find where he stomped my ball into the ground. I ask my playing partner for a ruling, and he says that is falls under the category of 'man-made obstruction'. I dig my ball out and drop it onto the ground. I check my yardage: 156 yards to the green. I can either use a weak eight-iron or smash the tar out of my nine. After much thought and deliberation, I opt for the nine-iron. The group ahead of us is still finishing with their approach shots, having been delayed when they went to the clubhouse to get ice and a bandage. I occupy my time in trying to catch one of those little fluffy things that you can never catch because they move as soon as you close your hand. I watch their final putt drop and assume my stance next to the ball. My pre-shot routine behind me, I commence my swing. Suddenly, at the peak of my backswing, I forget which club I am using. I panic. How much force do I use? I try to stop my swing, but it is too late. I release my club. Now there is nothing to do but watch the quiet revolutions of my club as it slices through the midday air, sending glorious flashes of light as though it is a strobe light sent from the heavens. Then it splashes into a water hazard. There is an uncomfortable silence as my playing partners glance at each other, afraid to laugh for fear of my reaction. I break the silence as I pick up my bag, saying, "Guess I'd better go with the eight-iron."
It is the eighteenth hole, and my patience is wearing thin. My shoes are wet, my shoulder is sore, and my hat is saturated with sweat. To top it off, my underwear is starting to ride up on me. I am in a good position to beat my opponent. We are both on the green, but I have a substantially shorter putt. I cross the green and take position behind my ball, waiting for the others to finish. One after another, their balls sink into the hole, leaving only me with a generous four-foot putt to seal a victory. As I walk toward my ball, I glance at my opponent and give him a smirk that says, "Eat this, pea-brain." I position myself and take a few practice swings. I line up my club head and slowly bring it back. Suddenly, my opponent yells out, "Miss!" I follow through with the stroke and hope for the best. Unfortunately, it rolls around the lip and out of the cup. He breaks out laughing, prompting me to shout, "Shut up, jerk!" He stops laughing abruptly when he notices that I am running aggressively in his general direction, waving my club and flaring my nostrils. "Geez!" he says and turns around, poised to run. In his haste, he neglects to remember the large bunker that lies just off the eighteenth green. His left foot catches on a rake, and he is propelled headfirst into the sand. I stand at the rim of the bunker, knowing that it wouldn't be right to hit him when he is down, so I kick a clump of dirt in his face and walk away, knowing that I am much more the man than he is. I finish the hole and turn in my scorecard. It is several minutes later before I am informed that I have been disqualified because an official had seen me kicking my ball out of the way of a tree on hole seven. Several times.