Clarence the Clown

I finally relented and headed out to Lake of the Woods to play with two of my golf buddies, Phil and Ray.  They had asked me several times to join them on Saturday mornings but I usually declined.  For one thing, I’ve never been a morning golfer.  The dew always seemed to catch and turn my clubface through impact.  For another, Phil and Ray usually played with older golfers at the Lake to whom I couldn’t relate.

As we were milling around the first tee, Phil and Ray introduced me to Clarence, one of their Lake of the Woods golf buddies.  He was considerably older than the rest of us.  He’d seen it all and done it all, even if it was only in his mind.  Of course, with his mind, his longest trip was probably to the Orange County courthouse.

After the perfunctory introductions, Clarence immediately told me that he was a twenty three handicapper and then asked me what my handicap was.  I was somewhat taken aback by his question since I knew that when the handicap subject came up, betting was not far behind.  Golf, to me, was just an exercise in futility eclipsed by an occasional burst of brilliance every millennium.  So, consistency and betting weren’t my thing.  I didn’t like to disturb the golf experience by engaging in any type of pecuniary remuneration.

So, I quickly scanned through the neuron paths which were working that day to find the best response to Mr. Foge.  I was in the same quandary that all bad golfers confront when asked to divulge their handicap.  I could either claim a low handicap and attempt to play to it, but most assuredly lose any bet, or I could claim a high handicap and easily play under that and win any type of bet that was made.  Of course, Phil and Ray knew my handicap but I didn’t think they would contest my assertions since I hoped they were just out to have a good time anyway. 

So, bowing to the pressure of the moment and to attempt to assure winning any bets, I informed Clarence that I was a twenty seven.  Clarence snickered under his breath, turned his back to me, and told Phil and Ray that it was hard to beat a high handicapper like me, since they had to give me so many strokes.

I thought to myself that it was odd that someone would berate me for being a high handicapper when his real handicap was a twenty three.  In my world, a twenty three handicapper doesn’t have any reason to be proud.  Most people I know could kick the ball around and still be a twenty three. 

I decided to take a positive approach to the situation.  Instead of getting mad, I decided to prove to Clarence that he was right; he couldn’t beat a twenty seven.  I didn’t verbalize these thoughts nor did I pay any attention to the actual bets that were made.  I just concentrated on beating Clarence by at least a stroke on every hole we played.

Through the first nine holes, I did beat Clarence every hole but one.  I had a ten stroke lead over him in my secret personal battle to humiliate him.  I decided that I had proven my point and was going to just enjoy the back nine.

However, the fun didn’t last very long.  Clarence had the obnoxious habit of saying “Get it close,” every time someone was about to putt.  He thought it was cute to utter this phrase putt after putt, hole after hole.  Phil and Ray enjoyed the tome as well.  I didn’t pay much attention to it on the front nine since I was so intent on beating the crap out of him.  But, since my mind had cleared on the back nine after I had stopped trying to humiliate him, I started to notice his other bothersome idiosyncrasies.  In fact, I started to worry about Clarence’s mental stability since the first sign of mental illness is continually repeating the same phraseology over and over again.

On about the thirteenth hole, he told me to get it close for the umpteenth time, so I finally told him that I was tired of him repeating that mantra every hole and that I would appreciate it if he would stop.

Of course he didn’t.  On the fourteenth hole, he even acquired an accomplice to support his misdeeds.  Ray started the same mantra as Clarence every time I lined up a putt.  I was hearing double:  Get it close, get it close.  Now, Ray is a different type of cat, so it didn’t bother me when he said it.  It was Ray’s way of telling me that he liked Clarence’s little joke and I better start liking it too.  Since Ray was one of Phil’s best friends, I didn’t verbally challenge Ray.  In addition, I learned as a kid that one doesn’t challenge certain people.  For several reasons, Ray was one person I didn’t challenge.

Somehow, we finished the round without incident.  However, for some reason, I was never again invited out to Lake of the Woods to play with Clarence.  In fact, Clarence told me to my face that I wouldn’t be back.  He was right.  I tried to take the words of Rodney King to heart when he said “Why can’t we all just get along?”  However, the only way I could get along with Clarence was to not play golf with him.