The PGA Golf Tour is playing at Kapalua golf course on Maui this week. I was watching a sports station in my favorite hangout last evening, when scores were posted from the tournament. My wife, sitting next to me, said something like, "That's always been one of your favorite courses."
Well, not only was she absolutely right, as usual, but it's also the scene of one of may favorite golf stories.
The second time I played the course, on a free afternoon during a week-long business conference, I invited three managers from our organization to come along. All three were good players, and I was sure we'd make up a fun, competitive, foursome. I told the guys that I'd played the course several years before, and thought they'd enjoy not only the golf, but the fantastic scenery too.
As we went around the course, it turned out exactly as I expected. The weather, naturally, was perfect. The course was in magnificent condition. And all in our group were having a wonderful time, and playing pretty good golf to boot.
Then, somewhere on the back nine, the fifteenth hole I think, but I'm not positive though I should be, considering what took place. After I'd lined up a putt and was about to strike the ball, I took my putter back as I usually do, while keeping my eyes on the ball. But, I found that my swing was cut short because I'd evidently hit something behind me.
Now, as anyone who's ever seen someone hit a putt, even the most inexperienced observer knows that when golfers hit any golf stroke, much less a putt, there's never anyone, or anything close by. And certainly nothing that a swinging putter could hit. Consequently, when my putting stroke was blocked from behind, I had a moment of complete confusion, perhaps shock, and sort of froze before recapturing my senses.
Almost instantly later, the other three guys with me began laughing loudly, adding to my confusion.
A moment later, still in my putting stance, I finally turned my head to the right and was astounded to see this enormous white duck standing about two feet away, right on my putting stroke's path. So, obviously, when taking my club back, I'd hit the duck.
What had happened was, this bird was evidently fascinated by my golf shoes, which were bright white and had flaps that covered the laces and gently moved in the breeze. And not only was this duck somehow driven to get at my footwear, no matter what we did, it wouldn't give up. Yelling and screaming "beat it" an "shoo" didn't work, nor did arm waving or gentle prods with golf club handles, or flapping of towels. No matter what we tried, or how far we pushed this determined duck, within moments it was back.
As I sit here and type, I really don't remember if I ever finished out on that hole, or gave up trying to putt. And, all in all, we had a strange kind of fun due to the highly unusual circumstance of someone losing a hole to a duck. But, when the round was over, since the scene was so odd, we went into the pro-shop to tell the tale to the resident pro.
After I'd related the story, and mentioned that we'd tried everything we could think of to rid ourselves of this pest, the pro asked something like: "Can you read sir?" When I assured him I could, he asked us to accompany him back to the golf hole, which we did, clambering back into carts. And there, right next to the the green, on a tree we obviously hadn't noticed, was very a large sign with very big letters hanging over a can of dried corn kernels. What the sign said was: "Feed the duck!"
That's it for today folks.
Adios
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