Whenever I post on HIF, I try to make the freebies somewhat funny, for what two things go better together than laughter and freebies? Sometimes I just make up random crap about what I might do with the freebies, but I usually try and think of how I can tie in one of my random escapades from my past and if I’m really lucky, I might remember a good tale to tell here on Shyzer.
Enter the free golf tees post from yesterday.
As the post scantily covers, my grandma used to live right next to a golf ball driving range. I would run over at least three or four balls every weekend as I mowed her tiny back yard, so it wasn’t long before I had a nice collection of what I viewed as ammo. I would sometimes stay with my grandma overnight since her health was deteriorating at the time, but once she went to bed at the crack of 6 PM, I always found that I was bored out of my mind. I’d read a little, listen to the radio (what I would have given for an iPod or laptop computer back then!), but every night I’d invariably find myself outside in the row of fur trees separating the range and her yard with a bucket of balls next to me.
For a while, I used to pick a target and see how many times it took me to hit it or I’d throw balls back towards the golfers just to see how close I could get. But it didn’t take long for me to either get bored again or run out of balls to throw and seeing as how I always tried to make a game out of any situation, I finally got the idea to run around.
On the range.
At night under the bright lights.
I do remember wearing a football helmet though. Because if there’s one thing I’m a stickler for, it’s safety! You know, while I’m voluntarily dodging lethal flying projectiles and spirit crushing insults from the golfers.
I don’t even remember what the point of the game was. At one point I started cleverly referring to it as “Dancing Golf Time.” I never did get beaned. Not once. I guess that doesn’t bode too well for South Carolina’s golfing elite. I’m pretty sure I just tried to stay out as long as I could, running around, flailing my arms and screaming insults back at the golfers before the acne ridden teenager who drove the golf ball collecting kart came flying like a bat out of hell towards me. Then I’d high tail it for the tree line and stealthily make my way back home, where I’d bask in the glow of my victory over cranial blunt trauma and enjoy a refreshing Diet Coke.
I think that’s all old people drink.
Anyways, a few friends eventually came over and started the Friday night ritual with me. And they say Spartanburg is boring to grow up in! After a few weeks, the owner had finally had as much as he could take, and thus he kindly gave us 10 seconds warning over the loudspeakers that he was about to release his four Dobermans off their leashes.
We thought he was just joking.
He wasn’t.
I honestly can’t think of a time where I’ve run faster than I did that night. I know the 200 yard head start we had on the beasts sounds impressive, but I seem to remember that gap shrinking at about an average of 100 yards a second, give or take. Somehow I ended up leading the way off the range and we wound up in a total stranger’s garage, slammed the door closed, and waited an hour before they finally slunk home.
And you know what? I have to tip my hat to that owner and those dogs, because it’s a testament to their ferociousnesses that the next weekend we weren’t playing “Temp the Dogs.”
