Beer-Commercial Etiquette: No Thanks
Of all the sins in golf, there is none more venal than pocketing a “lost” ball before making sure it’s not someone else’s. Possession is reportedly still 9/10th of the law, and that means fork over my ball, Paul!
My current pique stems from an incident at a municipal course whereat not one, but two approach shots disappeared on the same hole. One of my guys hit his second shot from behind some trees, and it harmlessly trickled to a stop near the group ahead, a quartet of millennials already on my Annoyance Radar for slow play.
When said confederate queried the frat boys about his ball, one of them produced it from his slim-fit chinos, whining that they had been “hit into.” Hey, I’m on their side up to a point: Make sure the group ahead is long gone before launching a potentially concussive blow to their hollow skulls.
But as if that weren’t indignity enough, when I reached the approximate terminus of a smoked 4-iron I’d hit to 80 yards, I was entirely flummoxed! No ball, nary a trace, nor was anyone remotely visible when I hit. Of course, I mock-politely asked the Four Stooges if they’d seen my yellow Pro-V1 nestled on the fairway a wee 54-degree wedge away. Nope, they said, shaking their hipster heads in unison. I drove away, muttering audibly as I dropped a ball and finished the lousy hole.
Unfortunately, the GQ-clad punks were still on the next tee when we pulled up. “You sure you didn’t see my ball?” One of the Jonas Brothers began to rummage through his bag, saying “I was playing a yellow ball, too!” At which point I saw my very ball in their cart, next to a bottle of upmarket craft beer. Stooge Two says: “Give him back his ball, Lance!”
No need — I grabbed it myself, baring my teeth like a pit bull.
At which point, I went total-Motown on these scofflaws. Ever heard of etiquette? Are you idiots new to the game? What happened — you saw a beer commercial shot on a golf course and bought some clubs? And, P.S., if you can’t afford balls, drink Budweiser instead of that grapefruit-infused IPA!
Lance dribbled his tee shot about 42 yards, intuitively sensing a homicidal maniac was nigh. I delivered a few additional salty epithets as they departed, hoping they’d learned their lesson: You can do what you want, just lay off of my Pro-V1s.