Maybe my Dad blogging isn’t such a good thing after all. Witness his latest post, wherein he recounts a sad chapter in the O’Grady family history; one which reflects semi-poorly on my 12 year old self. A couple of points of clarification are in order, however:
- The problem was not, in fact, that I yanked the wheel while attempting what would have been a really cool on-the-fly pickup of the club, but rather that in leaning over I’d shifted my foot to the accelerator rather than the brake. Thus, instead of slowing as I approached the club, I sped up. Not ideal.
- “Ordered my son into the ditch” my son is apparently a euphemism for “threw him bodily into” said ditch.
- More to the point, given that the cart weighed – at a minimum – five or six hundred pounds, it seemed distinctly unlikely that a 12 year old and his Dad would be able to lift it five feet straight up. In other words, nobody really had to get goose shit laced mud on them except for my grandmother, who was (regrettably) already covered.
- For those that are curious, this is not why I play very little golf these days. The reason for that is a.) that I’m terrible, and b.) most of my clubs are 50 years old and made of wood.
On at least one point, however, my father was dead wrong. While making the long drive home, before I entered a self-imposed several day exile into the attic, my Dad’s mantra was “We will never laugh about this, we will never laugh about this.” Today? It’s a staple of most family gatherings.