Over the decades, I’ve been hit with a few stray balls while on the golf course, but I’d never been hit with a golf club, intentionally or otherwise, until last week.
The round started routinely enough, Steve and me against Ted and Matt, and after two holes, the match was even. Then, as I walked onto the third tee, my partner decided to take a one-armed practice back swing with his driver. Wham; it got me smack-dab in the middle of the forehead.
I groaned, leaned forward and instinctively put my hand over the point of impact, as my companions rushed over, asking, “Let’s see; is it bleeding?” I pulled my hand away, and, sure enough, blood was gushing out of the gash and had ruined my golf glove.
Ted had a first-aid kit in his bag and applied a bandage to the wound, but blood continued to pour out around it. I dabbed my forehead with a wet towel and the bleeding slowly diminished.
“How do you feel? Can you keep playing?’’
“I guess so,’’ I said. “I wish I had a mirror so I could see the cut. How big is it?’’
“Maybe an inch,” Steve replied, grimacing as he viewed the damage.
Anyway, realizing that the only ailment that justifies calling off a match is the one that would require a port-a-john on every hole, I decided to continue. (That decision later would be called “foolish’’ by numerous commentators, including my wife.)
I proceeded to lacerate the next hole, three-putting from 10 feet for a double bogey. “These guys are ruthless,’’ I said to Steve, ``they wouldn’t give me that three-foot putt, with blood streaming down my face.’’
Soon, the bleeding stopped and I got my game back, shooting a 76. Steve, feeling terrible about the assault, didn’t recover and carded a 90. We lost the match.