Nineteenth Hole

He walked onto the green and pretended to look. I watched him take a ball out of his pocket and drop it. “Here it is!” he cried.

“Two-stroke penalty,” I said. “Lost ball.”

His neck grew red. “But this is my ball right here. Titleist three. ”

“Come on. I saw you drop it.”

“Your word against mine.”

I shook my head. “You’re just a goddamn cheat. It’s pathetic.”

He came apart. Screamed, threw down his clubs, balled his fists, stormed over to the refreshment tent and tore it apart.

“I saw it too,” said my caddy. “But he’s the president.”

 

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8 Replies to “Nineteenth Hole”

  1. He can’t stand losing! Every once in a while you hear about a sore loser (which he is) throwing a fit because of some minute little screw, heat, cold – anything to keep from losing – This guy IS a LOSER!

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