After a quick credit card swipe we were headed to the driving range, lugging a full set of clubs and a bucket of 75 balls.
The timing wasn't great. It was early afternoon, clear skies, scorching Florida sun, insane heat index. Oh, and no sunscreen.
Still, we couldn't have had more fun. We laughed so hard at our pathetic performance we almost cried. Once every 10 strokes or so, one of us would actually propel a ball in a forward direction more than a few feet. Mostly, we just clubbed the ground, kicking up dirt and drawing snooty looks from the more appropriately dressed fellows to our right and left.
Golfers we surely are not. I'd call us hackers if I thought we had that much potential. But few endeavors have been as entertaining lately as our ill-timed, laughable and downright deplorable appearance on the links.