On the Course, Off the Wagon
The afternoon was sticky, and the air hung heavy. I was sweating bullets (and my morning vodka) before we even stepped off the putting green.
We were a rag-tag bunch playing in a golf tournament for police officers. It was three Irish bartenders, me — one their best customers — and a hundred cops.
Like the other tournaments we played, it would be an all-day bender. Coolers stocked with beer sat on every tee box. At this point in my drinking career, I needed something stronger — so I’d stashed some vodka in my bag.
One of my teammates asked me if I’d drank that morning because he could smell the vodka. I casually dismissed him.
“It must be sweating through my pores.”
This had become my go-to excuse.
On the first hole, I barely missed a birdie putt. So, on the second tee box, I wound up on my drive looking to fully release my frustration by smashing through my little white Pro-V1.
After I made contact, I couldn’t stop my follow through. I spun around in a sloppy twirl and landed on my ass. Sitting on the tee box undeterred, I studied the sky and found my ball in flight, slicing over a ravine and cutting into the corner of the fairway.
