Tennyson Ducks

Reminiscing sucks. But it can sure be funny to others.

Going through my collection of photos taken over the years, I found one of me from 26 years ago, teeing off in my first-ever corporate golf tournament, after a summer of playing in my first-ever corporate golf league(s).

Trust me: I ain't near as svelt as I was then, but I digress. And don't let the golf swing fool you either, as the upcoming will reveal.

Just how did I do in my first-ever golf tournament, you ask? I'll say this much: the scene was truly picturesque. A country club close to the US Air Force Academy north of Colorado Springs. Set off the interstate, in an area akin to the Black Forest region (awash in trees). If the scenery for 18 holes was the measuring stick, I won. Alas, it wasn't. And I didn't.

Instead, I'll let this badly-written parody of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's epic poem Charge Of The Light Brigade 'splain it, with apologies to the following, of course: Alfred, Lord Tennyson; The Johns-Manville Annual Golf Tournament (1980); Woodmoor Golf Club and the residents living thereon; The PGA; The Sierra Club; The Audubon Society; Pinnacle Golf; Wilson Golf Clubs; Dexter Golf Shoes; the beer cart babe; my foursome, and those ahead, behind, and to either side at any given time; and random traffic on I-25.

For Whom The Strokes Toll

End of league, end of league
to the annual tournament onward
went the league golfers
"Forward to the nineteenth hole" they cried.
To the club of Woodmoor, went the league golfers.

In his foursome, was there a trio dismay'd?
For the others knew,
the way he played.
From whenst the first tee off,
and the golf balls fell
rode his foursome.
Into the Valley of the hazards of Hell,
rode the foursome.

Trees to the left of them, trees to the right of them,
trees in front of them,
cracked and ricocheted;
storm'd at with fades and hooks,
oft they ducked and well
within range of his drives,
into the 'Fore!'s of Hell
dodged his foursome.

Flash'd all their irons bare,
flash'd as they got thrown in air
flying as they ducked and dodged his errant shots there
while the rest on the course wonder'd:
plunged in divots' spray
right through his line of fire went they
through the course at Woodmoor
ducked his foursome.

Players to the right of them, players to the left of them
players behind them, acringe and asprawl;
diving 'neath shanks and errant ball;
Of the three dozen balls with which begun
back from the traps of Hell came not every one.

When can the memory fade?
O' the gawdawful score he made!
All the league wonder'd.
Forget it not, the game he flayed;
forgive it not, the game he played;
forget not the golf duffer
and his 143.

Worry not; I have no intention of giving up my day job...