A golf tournament at Elk Horn
On the first fairway, Gina wearing pink pants, showing a butt wider than any bunker, pressed a tee into the ground. She glanced at Hank, her assigned partner, behind her, dressed in a well-fitting country club golf shirt.
Thirty or more spectators stood on the sidelines.
Bent knees, hands wrapped on the grip of a driver, Gina extended her arms. She wiggled her backside, eyes focused on the T in the word Titleist. Keep your head down. Don't take your eyes off the ball. She slowly pulled back.
Ten seconds passed. A pair of bluebirds cut through two giants elms. As if in suspended animation, with a driver in the air, Gina froze.
"Hit the damn ball," an onlooker called out.
Gina snapped out of it. She swung. The ball sputtered and rolled—six feet. Laughter exploded.
Her face reddened. I should have stayed home.
"Don't worry. They're rude," Hank said, and then teed off.
His ball flew.
Gina’s turn. She swung and missed. After a couple of more tries, “Shit!”
Finally, she hit the ball. It rolled a few feet more.
Kicking the ground and more than a little frustrated, she slowly made it to the green.
"Sorry, I’m such a lousy player. This is hard." With the back of her hand, she wiped her forehead.
"You're trying too hard.” Hank laughed. “Relax, this is supposed to be fun."
"If you say so, but it's not easy."
Hole after hole, the same story. Gina swung. Hank waited.
That is until they reached number six—a refreshment station.
"Let's get something to drink." Hank gestured toward a washtub filled with ice.
Reaching into the container, he pulled out a couple of bottles of water and handed one to Gina.
“Thanks, I need this.”
They strolled to a refreshment stand. Jello Shooters: cherry, orange, lemon, and lime lined up on the counter.
Gina picked up a plastic shot glass. Like a hole in one, she gulped.
"Hmmm, this is good."
Then another, another, and another.
"Hey, take it easy." Hank narrowed his brows.
"One more."
She tilted her head back and swallowed like an eagle. "Okay, I'm ready."
Gina rolled her shoulders, dangled her arm at her side, and widened her smile. Fortified, she marched to the next fairway— a water hole.
She wasn't sure which club was best. So… she reached into her golf bag and just grabbed one. What the hell, who cares anyway?
Moseying to the pond’s edge, Gina, with a lopsided visor shielding her vision, swung.
The ball flew upward, over, and had landed on dry land.
Gina leaped for joy. And all it took was a few Volka Jello Shots.
On the first fairway, Gina wearing pink pants, showing a butt wider than any bunker, pressed a tee into the ground. She glanced at Hank, her assigned partner, behind her, dressed in a well-fitting country club golf shirt.
Thirty or more spectators stood on the sidelines.
Bent knees, hands wrapped on the grip of a driver, Gina extended her arms. She wiggled her backside, eyes focused on the T in the word Titleist. Keep your head down. Don't take your eyes off the ball. She slowly pulled back.
Ten seconds passed. A pair of bluebirds cut through two giants elms. As if in suspended animation, with a driver in the air, Gina froze.
"Hit the damn ball," an onlooker called out.
Gina snapped out of it. She swung. The ball sputtered and rolled—six feet. Laughter exploded.
Her face reddened. I should have stayed home.
"Don't worry. They're rude," Hank said, and then teed off.
His ball flew.
Gina’s turn. She swung and missed. After a couple of more tries, “Shit!”
Finally, she hit the ball. It rolled a few feet more.
Kicking the ground and more than a little frustrated, she slowly made it to the green.
"Sorry, I’m such a lousy player. This is hard." With the back of her hand, she wiped her forehead.
"You're trying too hard.” Hank laughed. “Relax, this is supposed to be fun."
"If you say so, but it's not easy."
Hole after hole, the same story. Gina swung. Hank waited.
That is until they reached number six—a refreshment station.
"Let's get something to drink." Hank gestured toward a washtub filled with ice.
Reaching into the container, he pulled out a couple of bottles of water and handed one to Gina.
“Thanks, I need this.”
They strolled to a refreshment stand. Jello Shooters: cherry, orange, lemon, and lime lined up on the counter.
Gina picked up a plastic shot glass. Like a hole in one, she gulped.
"Hmmm, this is good."
Then another, another, and another.
"Hey, take it easy." Hank narrowed his brows.
"One more."
She tilted her head back and swallowed like an eagle. "Okay, I'm ready."
Gina rolled her shoulders, dangled her arm at her side, and widened her smile. Fortified, she marched to the next fairway— a water hole.
She wasn't sure which club was best. So… she reached into her golf bag and just grabbed one. What the hell, who cares anyway?
Moseying to the pond’s edge, Gina, with a lopsided visor shielding her vision, swung.
The ball flew upward, over, and had landed on dry land.
Gina leaped for joy. And all it took was a few Volka Jello Shots.
