About 10 years ago, I made a terrible mistake. After playing golf at a public course in a Chicago suburb, I left my clubs on the bag drop near the pro shop while I went inside for a cold drink.
When I returned to the rack, the clubs were gone. Stolen, in cold blood. Everything. Well, almost everything. The thief left one lousy golf glove on the ground, his calling card. You know. Like the Pink Panther movies. You`ve just been robbed. Have a nice day.
Well, it has happened again. Last week, I had my clubs stolen while observing spring training at the White Sox camp in Sarasota, Fla. Right out of the trunk of my rental car. Everything. Well, almost everything. This time, I was left one tee. One rotten tee. Whoever it was must have known. I`m a mistake waiting to happen, and I`m about to happen again.
Instead of taking the hint, I`m going to go out and buy another set of clubs. That was my mistake the first time. Not having them stolen. Having them replaced.
I don`t know who you are or where you are or what you`ve done with my clubs. The Sarasota police officer who took down all the information said you`ll probably take the clubs into a pawn shop and get maybe $75. I don`t know what you`ll use the money for, and I don`t want to know. If you`re reading this and you want to make a deal, I`ll pay a reward right now, no problem. You won`t be arrested, and I won`t have to answer any more embarrassing questions, either.
”How many balls did you have in your bag?” the police officer asked me. ”About 30,” I said.
”Oh?” he said. ”Why were you carrying 30 balls?”
”So I`d have 20 left after the round I was supposed to play before the clubs were stolen,” I said.
The officer just looked down at his clipboard. He was biting his lip. I have no idea why.
”Can you describe what the clubs look like?” the officer said after catching his breath.
”Well,” I said, ”the shafts are graphite to make the ball go longer, and they`ve got a lot of marks from where I hit the ball to try to make it go longer.”
”The shafts?” he said. ”You hit the ball on the shafts?”
”Sometimes the hozzle,” I said.
The officer looked down at his clipboard again.
”Do you think I`ll ever get them back?” I pouted.
”Not likely,” the officer said. ”Either they`ll be sold, or the guy who took them will keep them.”
That wouldn`t be all bad, either, come to think of it. If I`m going to suffer without those clubs, I want the thief to suffer with them. The 3-through 7-irons, you see, don`t work. I just had them for looks, and to keep the weight in the bag balanced. The 8-iron hits line drives into tree trunks, and the 9-iron should have a hook and a worm on the end of it. I use it to find the green; it wants to find trout. The sure-out sand wedge is really a bathroom plunger with grooves, but if you`ve got as much trouble with toilets as traps, hang onto it.
The putter is trouble. The minute you touch it, you get what feels like an electric shock through your entire body. Your knees quiver and the right elbow starts vibrating. By all means, remove all jewelry. And if you don`t want to chip any teeth, I`d bite down hard with the jaws until you complete your follow-through. Disregard the four arrows I`ve drawn on the back of the putter, and if you cut your fingers on the contraption where the grip is supposed to be, don`t panic. It`s designed to keep the hands steady, and there are bandages in the small pocket on the lower left side. The one with blood near the zipper.
I don`t know what to tell you about the driver, except its sweet spot has never been violated. I wanted to buy the hot club on the market now, the Big Bertha, but the pro took a look at my swing and sold me a Little Lucy instead. Little Lucy usually is good for a 100-yard shot that has terrific hang time and lands very softly, which is one reason I was thinking about using my 8-iron for distance off the tee instead of Little Lucy until you entered the trunk of my car.
But you shouldn`t have to go to jail, not if you promise to keep those clubs forever. I`m miserable, but if you`re miserable, too, I can live with that. Still it hurts. If those clubs could somehow scream for daddy, I`d come running after them to bring them home. Then again, it`s probably just as well that those clubs can`t talk.
By the way, that scorecard in the side pocket below the compass and the poison ivy ointment? Just above the flares and fishing boots? Would you please throw that away.
