Goliath and the Golf Ball

I didn't know much about golf.  I had probably seen glimpses on TV, some tournament where there was a lot of whispering, or a Disney cartoon with goofy or some such.  My Dad didn't golf, or really do any other sport.  So when the neighbor boy, David Quick, suggested we try some golf, I was all for it, but I had no idea what he really meant.

I must have been only eight or nine years old.  David's father, unlike mine, participated in sports.  He indeed was the coach of the football team at a nearby high school.  He had a set of golf clubs that David got out that day

He took the clubs out and we went to a vacant field behind his house.  We were soon joined by David's dog, Goliath.  And as big as that name sounds, Goliath was much bigger.  He was some kind of cross between St. Bernard, Mastiff and Chewbacca.  But for all his size, he was gentle, friendly and none too bright.  So wagging his massive tail, Goliath joined us on our golfing excursion.

David decided that I should be the caddy.  I wasn't quite sure what that was, but I found myself holding the golf club bag.  David got out a ball and selected a club.  I don't know how he picked because they all looked basically the same to me.  Goliath was excited.  He knew something he could chase might be coming up.

David put the golf ball down on the ground.  I stood dutifully behind him, not sure what I was supposed to be doing.  David aimed his club on the ground, sizing up just how to smack the ball.  Then he said, "Fore!", drawing his club back with great gusto, hitting me hard square in the head.  Right above my eye, right on the brow of my forehead,, right into my eyebrow.

David had hit the ball, but I really wasn't too aware of that.  I was in pain and bleeding profusely.  I was in shock and did not cry out, but it hurt like you wouldn't believe.  I was about to lose it all together when that dog came up, emerging from the field.  Goliath had the golf ball in his mouth, wagging, pleased with himself at his retrieval service.  Then Goliath looked up at me and saw me standing there, blood spewing from my forehead, my vision blurred but still enough to see that big dog.  Goliath stopped wagging his tail and looked at me.  And then I saw him swallow the golf ball.  Whole.  In one great, big gulp.

I couldn't help it.  It was just such a funny, cartoony sight, I started to laugh.  The dog just looked at me, puzzled.  My parents came and took me to the hospital, where they put a number of stitches in.  But all the time this was going on, I wasn't crying or thinking of the pain.  I was thinking of that big, dumb dog swallowing that golf ball whole.

If you look closely enough, you will see a break in my left eyebrow where the hit was made. And when I see it, I am not reminded of the pain, or my ignorance at whatever the heck "Fore!" meant.  I think of that dog, Goliath, who was none the worse for wear for swallowing that golf ball.  He presumably passed it whole sometime later, I would think.

That is my one true, great memory about golf.  Wait until I tell my basketball story!

Until next time,

T. M. Strait