Fore!

On Monday afternoon during my golf league at Pebble Wood Golf Club, in Bridgman, Michigan, someone hit an errant shot that stopped about ten yards from my partner's and my cart. He didn't yell “Fore!” so I yelled “Ow!" as if I'd been hit. We all laughed.

Two days later, on a cool (upper 40s), windy, morning in the middle of May, Les, Preston, Fred, and I had a 9 am tee time at Beeches Golf Club, a challenging course in South Haven, Michigan. Les and Preston wanted to play only nine holes, while Fred and I decided to play all eighteen.

Fred was lights out on the front nine. The rest of us struggled quite a bit. As a result, our foursome played very slowly, causing other foursomes behind us to have to wait on us. The worse you play the longer it takes you to play.

When we got to the 5th tee we waved the group behind us through. It's routine golf etiquette for a slower group to signal a faster group to pass ahead of them.

We finished the front nine by 11:30, in 2½ hours. It should have taken less than 2 hours, but we spent a lot of time searching for our errant shots.

As Les and Preston left, Fred and I went to the clubhouse for a bite to eat. After a hotdog, chips, and a pop we headed out to the 10th tee to play the back nine as a twosome.

By now the temperature had warmed up only to the mid 50s, and the wind was still blowing cold from the north. Taking that lunch break allowed my back to stiffen, so the final nine holes were going to be even more difficult for me.

We were on the 12th green when I noticed a single golfer about 180 yards behind us in our fairway, waiting for us to clear the green so he could hit his approach shot. I suggested to Fred that we should ask him to join us as a threesome. He agreed, so we waved him up. I watched as he hit his approach shot but lost it in the sun. I thought, you know, I really shouldn't be just standing here, but he never yelled “Fore!” so I figured it was okay, his shot must not be that close to us.

Suddenly his ball drilled me on the fly, squarely on my forehead, right where the bill of my old leather visor meets the brim. I felt a shock wave race down my body. The bill immediately slapped down against my sunglasses so everything went black for a split second. Then it flipped back up as the ball ricocheted about ten yards away. I simultaneously staggered back a step, grabbed my head, turned and bent over while Fred ran over and grabbed me to keep me from falling. So I just stood there and took inventory.

The impact sound was surprisingly loud, probably because I was so close to it. I was alive and still on my feet, and I could see again. My sunglasses weren't broken since the ball hit an inch or so above them. The felt liner I had glued in the brim years ago to make it more comfortable must have softened the impact some, so the pain wasn't too bad, and soon it subsided.

The bill of my visor is attached to the brim with three brass rivets, and the ball must have hit the center one. Even with that felt liner I had a gash on my forehead about half an inch long, deep enough to turn red but not deep enough to bleed. We stood there for a few seconds with Fred still holding onto me until I finally said, “I think I'm okay.”

Actually, I was surprised and very lucky I was okay. An inch lower and either right or left and I could have lost an eye. I had just gotten dentures four months before, and I doubt they could have survived a direct hit. And if the ball had hit the bridge of my nose I suppose that could have been fatal. My dad always said I was a hard head so I guess if I had to get hit, then right in the middle of my forehead was probably the best spot.

The guy who hit me, named Dave, came racing up in his cart very apologetic and concerned. He said he saw his shot heading right at me but didn't yell “Fore!” because he thought I saw it and had determined that it was short. I told him I lost it in the sun, but assured him I was okay. We then invited him to join us for the rest of the round. Surprised I wasn't mad and relieved I was okay, he accepted.

My next shot on that 12th green was a 30 foot putt which I drained. I joked that maybe that accident would make me a golfing savant, but that idea was quickly dispelled when I sliced my next shot from the 13th tee into a pond. We joked about that, too. Then I asked him what club he had used on the shot that hit me. He said a #4 hybrid. “When I tell the story it'll be a 3 wood,” I laughed.

The rest of the back nine was uneventful. Fred played well again, unaffected by the cold. Dave and I didn't.

After the round Dave again apologized but I told him not to give it another thought. All's well that ends well. I didn't even have a headache. We shook hands and said our good-byes.

Fred and I agreed to play again the following week, but not at Beeches. Too tough for me!

Naturally, that night the writer in me thought what a shame it would be if I got a blood clot and died overnight before I got a chance to write this story down.