THE GOLF HOLE

The Day Jerry Hit a Goose at Pebble Beach

Let me tell you about my buddy Jerry. This dumb son of a bitch paid $575 to play Pebble Beach — FIVE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS — and on the very first tee box, he shanked the ball so goddamn hard it went 90 degrees left, bounced off a cart path, and nailed a Canadian goose right in the ass.

The goose — and I shit you not — turned around, looked Jerry dead in the eyes, and started CHARGING at him. Full sprint. Wings out. Honking like a freight train with anger issues. Jerry dropped his $400 TaylorMade driver and ran screaming across the fairway in his brand new FootJoys while 47 other golfers watched in absolute disbelief.

The goose chased him for three holes. THREE. HOLES. The marshal had to come out in a cart and Jerry was hiding behind the ball washer on hole 4, crying. He never even finished the front nine. $575 and this man played zero holes of golf. The goose played better that day. It shot a 72.

The pro shop wouldn't refund him. The goose got a plaque. Jerry got banned from the state of California. True story. Well, mostly.

When My Father-in-Law Lost His Dentures in the Sand Trap

My father-in-law Frank — God rest his golf game — is the kind of guy who screams "FORE" after the ball has already landed. He's 73 years old, swings like he's fighting a wasp, and insists on drinking Busch Light out of a thermos because he thinks the beer cart is "a damn ripoff."

So we're at this municipal course — the kind of place where the greens look like somebody mowed a parking lot — and Frank ends up in the bunker on hole 7. He takes this massive swing, and the sand EXPLODES. I mean it looked like a damn bomb went off. Sand everywhere. In his eyes, his ears, his shirt.

And then we hear it: "CLACK." His upper dentures flew out of his mouth mid-swing and landed about 15 yards down the fairway. The ball didn't move. The TEETH outdrove the BALL. Frank's standing there, gums flapping in the wind, going "AH LAWHT MAH TEEF! AH LAWHT MAH TEEF!"

The foursome behind us was DYING. One guy had to sit down on the fairway because he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Frank walked the rest of the round with his dentures in his pocket and kept mumbling about how "thith game ith bullthit."

He shot a 143. His dentures shot a 12. We don't talk about hole 7 anymore.

The Country Club Fart That Ended a Marriage

I need to tell you about Tom and Sheila. Beautiful couple. Members at Pine Hills. Tom's a scratch golfer who takes everything way too seriously. Sheila just started playing and she's absolutely terrible — but in the most lovable way possible.

They're in a couples tournament. Mixed best-ball. Sheila's about to putt on 18 with the whole clubhouse watching from the deck. Everything goes quiet. Pin-drop silence. She lines it up, takes a breath... and right at the top of her backswing, Tom lets out the loudest, most catastrophic fart in the history of competitive golf.

I'm not talking about a little toot. I'm talking about a fart that sounded like somebody stepped on a tuba inside a cathedral. It ECHOED. Off the clubhouse. Off the trees. Off the lake. The duck on the pond took flight. A child at the snack bar pointed and said "THAT MAN'S BUTT IS BROKEN."

Sheila missed the putt by 40 feet. She three-putted from 4 feet. She threw her putter in the lake, threw her ring at Tom, and drove home in the cart. They separated for three months. Tom says the Busch Light and hot dog combo at the turn was "worth every consequence." He's now known at Pine Hills as "Thunder Tom."

They're back together now. Sheila won't play mixed events anymore. Tom is not allowed to eat at the turn. The duck never came back.

The Guy Who Brought a Metal Detector to the Driving Range

Every range has THAT GUY. The one who shows up with equipment nobody asked for. At our range, that guy is Dave. Dave showed up one Saturday morning with a full-ass metal detector — the kind you take to the beach to find quarters — and started sweeping the range for "premium balls."

The range pro came out and said "Sir, what the hell are you doing?" Dave, without looking up, says "Sir, there's gotta be at least $300 worth of Pro V1s buried out here. I'm mining for gold." He had a BUCKET. He brought a BUCKET for his haul.

He was out there for 45 minutes. Found two quarters, a tent stake, and what he thought was a ball but turned out to be a very old potato someone hit with a 7-iron in 2019. He got asked to leave. He tried to negotiate a finder's fee. He got a lifetime ban.

Dave, if you're reading this: we miss you, you beautiful idiot. Also you left your metal detector. It's in the lost and found next to Frank's dentures.