The Fat Bloke Diaries

 

Episode Fifty-Two – Straight Down the Middle

 

This week I picked up a golf club for the first time in many months. I swung it around at the driving range, looked like I knew what I was doing and even connected with a few balls. Much to my delight, some (but by no means all) of them even left the ground.

 

I had a fun time, but best of all I didn't get too many flashbacks. And, much to my surprise, the nightmares haven't started up again. I used to play golf quite a bit. I was never much good at it but I enjoyed it. The camaraderie, the fresh air, the bit of exercise. But I sort of went off it a bit after I nearly killed my Beloved.

 

I was never a good golfer. I know that all players say this but really, I was pretty poor. A single hole in par was a cause for celebration. Heck, there are some holes that I was pleased to get through in single figures. They say that the average golfer walks about four miles during a round. The way that I played it was usually more like six miles since I spent more time wandering around in the rough than on the fairway. They call it 'military golf', as my ball kept going left, right, left, right... I know that a handful of miles is not a massive distance, and that the exercise isn't all that intense, but any activity in the Great Outdoors sure beats getting RSI of the thumb through excessive X-Boxification, right?

 

My Beloved plays a round too (stop making your own punchlines at the back), and, much to her delight, has a much more delicate touch around the greens than I have. But on the particular occasion that has haunted me every time I've taken to a tee since, she wasn't playing; she was caddying for me.

 

She was standing off to one side in what would normally have been a very safe position. Now I've seen where my golf shots end up before, so I found it no problem to accept that it didn't fly quite as straight and true as I wanted it to. It was no surprise that my ball didn't land on the precise blade of grass that I'd aimed for, but it was still pretty unbelievable that it hit her. It was even more astounding that it struck the one part of her face where it wouldn't cause permanent damage, the fleshy bit of tightly-stretched cheek between her wide open teeth. And that was only there because I was boring her.

 

I was taking far too long on the tee – struggling to decide which club to use, allowing for the wind, checking and rechecking my grip – and she eventually couldn't hold back the yawn that had built within her any longer. It wasn't a girly yawn, stifled against the back of the hand. It was a full-on,  mouth opened enough to swallow Bradford thing, like a Yorkshire builder at an opera. It was the kind of yawn that a lion might do after dining on a particularly succulent zebra; the kind of yawn that lasts for ages.  It was the kind of yawn that saves lives. Which is a good thing, because I played the kind of shot that could've quite easily ended hers. I'm ashamed of it for so many reasons, not least of all because even after all my faffing about, I still managed to get my set-up and stance so terribly wrong.

 

I knew as soon as I began my back swing that it wasn't going to be pretty, but I could never have predicted just how horribly disastrous it was going to end up. It didn't so much fly straight and true from the sweet spot in the centre of my driver as from the very toe end of it. In a perfect world, it should have flown majestically forward, straight down the middle. As it was it shot off on a most unexpected sideways trajectory and then curved wickedly, straight to where my Beloved was standing, eyes closed, enjoying her yawn.

 

It hit her full in the face.

 

Had it struck her anywhere else on her head it could easily have killed her. By rights it should have at least  taken a few teeth out. It was a full strength drive off the tee. I'm not the world's longest hitter, but I can easily send a ball over two hundred yards, which is just what I'd been trying to do on this occasion.

 

Lesser women would have collapsed in floods of tears. Not my Beloved. She didn't even hit the deck; she is after all a proper hard Northern Lass. She did swear though. Profusely. Or as much as her rapidly swelling mouth would let her. She simply stumbled slightly, spat out the blood and gave me a look that I never want to see again.

 

And like the trooper that she is, she headed the little white missile (that had come so close to causing her a trip to the hospital or worse) beautifully back onto the fairway. But it didn't really help much. I still carded a terrible four over par.

 

The swelling began immediately, so much so that by the time we got home she looked like a lop-sided hamster, her cheek filled not with seeds and nuts, but with damaged bits of her own beautiful face. She stayed indoors until the horrible disfigurement and bruising had subsided so that neither of us had to face the inevitable “What the hell has Shaun done to you this time?” inquisition. The truth would've been too unbelievable to answer with a straight face, even if she'd had one.

 

Thankfully the incident didn't leave her with any permanent damage. When I think of what could have happened I appreciate that she was very, very lucky.

 

And so was I.

 

 

© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

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