To buck him up, I hopped spryly from the cart, grabbed a 7-iron, and went to find his ball. Presently I found myself hooked, a thorn gouged inside each nostril like a baited bear. A painful struggle ensued to disengage my bleeding snout from the damn bush. My partner, not at all grateful for my troubles, found this spectacle to be most amusing. He told and retold the Tale of the Bush repeatedly to the ever more drunken gathering of golfers and their wives over dinner that night.
Golfers are, in general, a most unsympathetic lot.
You wouldn't want to have a heart attack on the tee box. You'd only slow down play and they still wouldn't give you any strokes. In your absence, they'd give you a triple bogey on every hole. Without question they'd request your widow to pay up at your funeral. Austin Chronicle Corp. All rights reserved.