When one wishes to support a noble cause, sometimes that noble cause seeks to torture you first and only allows donations in the form of charitable golf tournaments. And when your news organization wishes to donate to a happy hearts non-profit they need a sacrifice. Which is how I, a traveling journalist found himself on a quest with three strangers trudging a fairway that was not very fair, sand traps without an oasis, water hazards too shallow to mercifully drown in, and a rough true to its name.

We learn so many things from golf- how to suffer, for instance

-Bruce Lansky

Hole 1

Jeb teed up, Lenny stood seven feet behind him like an unwanted sidekick, I drank an Arnold palmer from a can while leaning on the cart, driver in my other hand, slung over the shoulder. Sweat poured down my forehead. “That’s why you’ve got to wear a dri-fit,” Tom said. “Florida’s too humid for cotton.”

“Doesn’t Florida grow cotton?” I asked.

“What?”

“Do you think there’s an alligator in that water hazard over there?”

“I’ve seen an alligator once.”

“Only once? I feel like there’s an alligator in every zoo.”

After his tenth practice swing, Jeb finally had the confidence to hit the ball. Like all of our childhood dreams, the ball took off but not where expected. “Ooooh, you sliced it,” said Lenny while patting Jeb’s shoulder in solace.

Lenny teed up.

“So, you a big golfer?” I asked Tom.

“What the f***, dude? You calling me fat?” We maintained eye contact; I blinked a few times then downed the rest of my Arnold Palmer while fishing for another one.

Golf is a walk spoiled

-Mark Twain

Hole 4

I was stuck in a sand trap with minimal motivation or desire to get out. Lenny was a Charlie in the trees; we waited for the inevitable missile of his ball shooting back into play. “Hey Jeb, why is it called a stroke when we’re swinging the club? Why don’t they just call it a swing?”

“I don’t know, tradition I guess.”

“Baseball doesn’t call it a stroke when a batter swings.”

“I’m not a baseball guy.”

“We’re out here supporting a heart organization. I feel like calling it a stroke is insensitive. Want to call it something else?”

“Like what?”

“Another act of futility.”

The written word pales in comparison to what a silent judgmental face can say. Jeb walked away to join Tom on the green. I got another drink from the cart.

The only time my prayers are never answered is on the golf course.

-Billy Graham

Hole 7

“How drunk are you?” Lenny asked. “You’ve been saying weird things this whole time and at this point I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or this is just who you are.”

My drinking team has a golfing problem.

-Some guy

Hole 9

“Why are you sweating so much? I feel like that’s concerning.” Tom said while concerned.

I shot my hands out, palms up in accusation, “why aren’t you three sweating more, isn’t that much more concerning? It’s sweltering out here.”

“Look man,” Jeb chimed in. “You’ve been pushing our buttons all day. Stop with the button pushing.”

“What does that even mean? What buttons? The only button we have is a belly button and there is no way I’m touching yours.”

“What’s THAT supposed to mean?”

“I have no idea! I don’t know what anything means anymore! I’m so dehydrated and I’m finally out of all the sand traps. Did you know those sand traps are man made! We put them their on purpose. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves…”

“Hey Tom,” Lenny interjected to change the subject. “Bust out the scorecard, how’d we do?”

Tom busted out the scorecard. “Jeb shot 61, Lenny you did 56, I shot 65.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“What about you?”

“What did I shoot?”

A butterfly fluttered over my head oblivious to the game of golf.

“We stopped keeping track once we saw you hacking away in that 5^th hole sand trap. It was like a Sahara sandstorm and when the ball finally popped its way out you yelled one shot of futility.”

“Fair. It is futile isn’t it.”

Show me a man with a great golf game, and I’ll show you a man who has been neglecting something.

-John F Kennedy

The Country Club Bar

Arnold Palmers. They’re too sweet. Sitting at the bar hunched over, drunkenly numb and yet could feel the sunburn forming on my arms and neck, Lenny approached. I sipped a whiskey on the rocks. Not real rocks though. Just cute little ice cubes in the shape of golf balls. Slowly melting. Like all of our hopes and dreams. Lenny put a business card on the bar then with two fingers slid it in front of me. He put a hand on my shoulder in solace. The sunburn raged. “Hey man, I run a clinic. If you ever wanted to stop by we’d be happy to have you.”

“Lenny,” I asked. “How many hearts do you think we saved today?”

“I don’t think that’s how golf works,” he said.