It was hard just to keep my hands from shaking long enough just to choke down my breakfast that morning. I had been waiting for this day all year--no, I had been waiting a lifetime. It was finally my chance
to seek revenge on Jimmy Schlesinger for my humiliating defeat at the esteemed Mighty Muskrat match play golf tournament exactly one year ago.
I quickly realized that there was something peculiar in the air that cool autumn day. Word of the rematch had been circulating throughout the papers for weeks. In math class, Mr. Theodore gave me full credit for a homework assignment that I hadn't completed. At lunch, even my arch-enemy, Rami
Mikati, offered to buy me my usual Wednesday grilled cheese and oatmeal. At the end of the school day, I found the keys to a new
Camaro in my locker.
I had the weight of the city resting on my shoulders--no, it was the weight of a nation.
By the time I found myself stepping up to the first tee in front of a sea of eager observers from all over Portage County, Ohio, I could feel determination running through my veins like ice water.
Just then, nature began to call... and she meant business. I looked out into the mass of onlookers, and one smug grin that caught my eye--Rami Mikati. Suddenly it all made sense. The bastard had poisoned my grilled cheese sandwich with a highly potent laxative.
I didn't have time to get mad. I turned to my trusty caddy, Zed Lamda, and asked him for the driver. I stepped up to address the ball, aimed straight for the woods and smashed a drive into the trees, and well
out of sight. Before the crowd could finish its collective sigh of disappointment, I was spiriting towards the woods.
When I got deep enough into the forest, finding my ball was second priority. Once things had been calmed, I eventually did find my ball, took a penalty stroke and managed to escape with only a bogey.
There was still plenty of golf to be played. However, over the course of the next several holes, I wasn't my usual self. Drives were slicing out of control. Putts were rolling way off line. It looked as if Jimmy would once again have my number.
Then, by the eleventh hole, something started to feel out of place. I began to suffer immense pain with every step I took. I was walking as if a nine iron had been wedged up my pants. It turns out that of all
the many leaves in that forest, I had chosen the only one not intended to be used as a substitute for toilet paper.
With my bright red behind broken out in pain and the feeling as if the rash were spreading up my back and throughout my body at lightning speed, there was nothing left to do. I decided that I would finish out the current hole and then forfeit.
Maybe it was something about how the stars aligned right then. Maybe it was the abbreviated backswing that the rash was forcing me to take.
Most likely it was a biochemical reaction between the poison sumac and the highly potent laxative running together through my blood stream. Whatever the cause, I began to play the best golf of my life.
Approaching the end of the round, not only did I have a commanding lead over Jimmy, but I was on track to set a new course record.
Although just a couple of hours ago I had been on the verge of humiliation and defeat, I was now awaiting grandeur and praise.
I look back to that day on the links of the Mighty Muskrat Course and Pub for teaching me to always play out the round and to never give up. That being said, I did end up losing the tournament for the second year in a row.
You see, on the final hole, when left with only a tap in putt to complete my magical round, the opposing coach innocently came up and gave me a swift, premature slap on the rear-end to say congratulations. I turned around and without hesitation knocked him
unconscious with a four iron. Though I was disqualified from the tournament immediately, I still waddled off the course feeling like a winner--no, like a champion.
Nick Alexander is a Pratt junior. His column runs every other Friday.
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