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Whomping the Golf Ball Short Story:

Inventing Ken

Ken has been such an intricate part of our present Whomper’s group that I had almost forgotten how he stumbled into our inner circle. Carl first introduced us to Ken about a year ago. Ken brought game to our group. Unfortunately, not golf game. Still, Ken had extraordinary charisma and eventually won us over.

Now, he often rounds out our foursome or graces us with his presence as the fifth wheel. Ken is the focal point for many of the shenanigans that haunt our group. You can always count on good old Kenny boy to help tone down even the toughest round of play with his antics. I’m not sure how we survived a round without him.

On many of the more challenging courses we play, our recruit, Ken, is deployed ahead of our foursome to strategically relocate the tee markers to improve our driving opportunities. There’s only one problem with sending him ahead. Ken has this squirrel fetish and it has a tendency to distract him from his mission.

We have those huge fox squirrels populating the courses here on the Grand Strand, not like those puny little grey ones back home in Abbeville. My grandpa would have been in seventh heaven with these big’uns as he would have called them. There’d be enough dumplings to go around for the whole neighborhood after bagging just two or three. Better watch my mouth; Ken doesn’t tolerate us disrespecting his friends. 

One of my favorite Ken episodes occurred at The Witch golf course. We had a morning tee time, all arriving early except Carl and Ken. Ken really enjoys riding in Carl’s convertible so I’m sure they were probably taking the longer route to the course that beautiful sunny spring morning. He’s worse than a dog with an open car window.  After signing in and paying for our round we informed the young lady at the desk that Carl and Ken should be arriving shortly. They could catch up with us on the putting green. We warned her that Ken could be a little eccentric and Carl was just a tad on the obsessive compulsive side. Tad is a southern term, not golfing lingo. Carl is not a southerner but we still allow him to play in our foursome. He’s originally from Vermont or one of those snow ravished states; a fir piece from the palmetto state. Fir is not a tree as used I this context.

Upon arriving ten minutes later, the desk attendant greeted Carl and commented how glad she was to see that Carl had brought Ken along. She informed them where they could find us. Carl and Ken arrived at the putting green, Carl puzzled that she recognized both he and Ken. He recapped the incident in detail smelling a rat. The three of us busted a gut laughing.

Carl asked how she knew about Ken, convinced that they had never previously met. Ken had never played The Witch so he certainly didn’t remember ever seeing her. We had to confess. Carl nodded; he didn’t think she’d ever laid eyes on Ken before and if she had, she could have had him confused with someone else. Ken didn’t exactly stand out in a crowd.

Well, to set the record straight, Ken is Carl’s imaginary friend. If recollection serves me, Ken became the default name for one of Carl’s friends when he couldn’t remember people’s names. He’d greet everyone as Ken figuring it’d be better than asking them to repeat their names. Carl shared this story with us and a legend was born.

We began addressing each other as Ken on the tee box, at the snack bar and so forth then Ken eventually evolved into an actual entity. We started blaming Ken for selecting the wrong club for us, driving the cart poorly, talking while we putted or just generally disrupting our rounds. Ken could be counted on to pencil whip a false score on the card. I sure made a lot of bogeys when Ken kept our score. By the way, bogeys are a good thing when we’re talking my golf game.

 “Where’s Ken?” could be heard throughout our rounds.  Ken became our Harvey the Rabbit from the Jimmy Stewart classic movie. We can visualize Ken doing almost anything and we rarely play a round without him. Matter of fact, Ken co-authored this article. He’s quite the story spinner. Blame him for the editing.

Excuse me. I must go. I’ve been informed that Ken has cornered the beverage cart lady again and will not allow her back in her cart until she gives him some goobers. That’s peanuts for you non-southerners. “Ken, leave the young lady alone and go move those white tees on number five up like we asked you to do! And Ken, no squirreling around this time, please, or you’ll be banded from riding in the convertible! I do believe our dear Kenny just flipped me the finger!”

Keep your round honest out there. You never know when Ken may be watching. He’s such a blabber mouth.

Join T. Allen Winn, Author of Road Rage and Dark Thirty, at the Abbeville South Carolina Welcome Center Saturday May 4^th 10:30 AM until 2:30 PM for book signings of two new novels.

Readings

11:30 The Caregiver’s Son, Outside the Window Looking In

1:00 North of the Border, A Detective Trudy Wagner Thriller

The Dear John Letter

My dear Napola, my friends tried to warn me that I had plunged into this relationship too soon. I do tend to have this bad habit of plunging over and over, swirling in my self made abyss. So taken by your Italian allure, I too quickly scrubbed my relationship with Odessa, conservative and dependable.

            I will sorely miss you. We seemed to have shared that perfect fit but no longer. I find myself, flushing still as I replay what we once had. I’ll miss reading to you and sharing the many courtesy flushes in our make-believe library.

            We indeed shared special moments in our master of all baths. Steamy showers, being pelted by the Kohler pulsating shower head, are a thing of the past. Regardless to the desired setting, the massaging action no longer happens; another sign that we can no longer be. Hot showers have now turned cold. Oh how our ultimate escape pod has deteriorated. Discolored grout and scum stain the glass, masking what once was.

            I surrounded you with exquisite golden fixtures, mood lighting and a vanity worthy of a queen. These have been reduced to dripping, spraying atrocities, the lights and vanity now coated with the dust of time, marble scarred and scratched; drains that can no longer be trusted to deliver what I offer. The plush carpet that once brought tingles to my toes, feels ragged and worn as I make my way to your sitting chamber.  

            I’ve adorned you with the longest lasting Extra Soft tissue a man could buy. You’ve enjoyed perfumed sprays transforming your abode into a tropical fresh paradise.   Even these perks have not satisfied you. You only craved more.

What have you given me in return? Mineral deposits have replaced your pearly whites. You have made mockery of our affair with those disgusting yellow rings of yours. I have grown tired of your constant running, waking me up at all hours of the night to silent you with a jiggle. I am not your personal jiggle-lo!  I still have suspicions about you and that plumber last winter.

            I find you shallow even though you attempt to lure me with your water saving promises. The excruciating sounds of your exhaust fan leave my ears ringing. I can not continue to endure this pain while sitting patiently in your company.  We regularly embraced cheek to seat but your once cushy existence offers no comfort to my weary rear. 

            I sit here in the guest bath along with Elger writing this final farewell. I understand how you enjoy the social interactions; however, I am too embarrassed to invite over family and friends because I have grown tired of making excuses for your port-o-potty appearance and outhouse behavior.

            There’s nothing to be gained in me jerking your chain. It is only fair that you keep our brush and plunger. Sadly, the time is right for a life altering extreme makeover; yours, then mine.

With Love,

Your Bathroom Buddy

 

Next release coming soon, one from the heart:

Between the covers:

Chapters

11   My Papa

16   Have You Ever Been Fishing on

       A Hot Summer Day?

27   Falling from Grace

41   The Escape Artist

50   Tribute, My Way

64   Being Sociable While Kicking and

       Screaming

71   Life is What You Make It

92   Déjà Vu

108  Queen Solomon’s Dilemma

125  The Double Sided Sword

130  The Caregiver’s Caregiver

137  God’s Plan

143  Raising the Window and Peeping Inside

150  Inside the Window Looking Out

163  Closing the Window but Opening

         My Eyes

169  Eating Crow is truly an Acquired Taste

173  Putting it into Words, Therapy for the Soul

176..Skinning the Rabbit

        (Bonus Short Story)

From my Whomping the Golf Ball series:

What is to Whomp?

Whomp is probably not a golfing term familiar to most. For the record, I am the original Whomper so who better to provide an explanation and Whomping lesson. You’ve all probably Whomped a time or two in your golfing career just didn’t know it. Let us begin by researching the origin of the Whomp.

            Spring of 73, as a young man just starting my tour of duty in the working world, I had never played or had even considered playing the game of golf. Working the third shift or midnight shift as most dub it, the boys were always looking for group activities to promote male bonding. Finishing our shift at 7:30 AM, we had tried tennis, bowling and trail bike riding to mention a few. Why not try golf?

            All of my associates owned a set of clubs. I didn’t. They encouraged me to tag along one morning after work at High Meadows Country Club, a nine hole local course. They offered me the use of their clubs. I learned the difference between a right hand and left hand set. I am a righty but funny, my ball goes left and right.  They even supplied the balls; expensive decision for them. Neither they nor I knew what evil lurked on the links that flowering spring morning.

            Lesson #1, you should never take your first golf lesson on the course. Lesson #2, go home, sleep first then play when refreshed. Lesson #3, stick with bowling where high scores are a good thing. Lesson #4, golf balls are purchased in multiple quantities because you’re not expected to play with the same ball for extended periods. Lesson #5, it isn’t  really that easy to hit a stationary object.

            First tee, I learned the term, whiff, and that it equated to side and back pain. They advised “Slow down your back swing.” They didn’t tell me what to do with my front swing? They encouraged me to keep my eye on the ball. That worked. Now I could see where the ball was after I whiffed.

Abandoning my wind mill technique I finally overcame the whiff on the first tee box after about five or six swings. I then realized my natural ability to worm burn after a few simple adjustments. Worm burners are a lot better than whiffs, especially if they go straight and there is no water ahead; mine didn’t and yes, I found every drop of water that day. I think I even hit the water cooler.

            For my first fairway shot, they handed me a three wood; whiff then Whomp! Second, third, forth, fifth and sixth fairway shots, Whomp, Whomp, Whomp, Whomp and Whomped it again. I recall they stopped counting my strokes on the Par Four somewhere after those whomps reached double digits. Same drill on next tee box, whiffing, worm burning then Whomping numerous times. I had found a tempo. That theme played out over the next several holes but the ball finally went places, a lot of places. Riding one of those electric carts would have been better than walking and pulling the bags on carts like we were doing. We were young and broke or maybe just cheap.

            Finally on number six, one of my cohorts, after consuming mass quantities of adult beverages (the breakfast of third shift champions), yelled, “Whomp it, come on Whomp it again!”

            Another cheerleader echoed the first, “Hit it, Whomp; you can do it, Whomp!”  Apparently evolution had kicked in as I no longer just whomped. I had acquired my new nick name, Whomp.   

            You’re still not with me are you? Let’s bring in Mister Webster. Maybe he can help. Definitions applicable to Whomp: (1) A loud, heavy blow or thud (2) To hit or strike (3) hit with something flat, like a paddle or the open hand (4) strike somebody or something. When I attempted to strike the ball, I whomped the ground first and I guess the club served as my paddle contributing to the distinctive sound. That covers definition one through three.

            I secured definition number four on the par four seventh fairway. One of my early morning playing partners, a rather big boned, healthy country boy, happened to be standing in the middle of the fairway with his pull cart about a hundred yards ahead of me. He motioned for me to go ahead and hit the ball figuring I had not hit a fairway all day. Bad decision as I nailed a straight as an arrow line drive that Whomped him in his left shoulder as he tried to duck behind his pull cart validating that last definition. He sure ruined my best shot. It careened out of the fairway into the trees, a familiar place for me.

Over the years I’ve managed to hold on to that name, Whomp or Whomper. Heck, I even founded the WGA (Whomper Golf Association). My previous work group dubbed the Wednesday Whompers still has an annual Whomper Classic. One member even provided a sleeve of balls and tees during our last outing with Wednesday Whompers printed on them. We’ve all gone our separate ways but still manage that annual Whomper reunion where we play a  nine hole par three course, a nine hole executive course, break for a cook out then finish on our regulation nine hole course. We do a lot of Whomping on those Saturdays.

            I live on the Grand Strand now. While the beach golfers I presently partner up with are much improved over my former companions, I still find myself referring to us as Whompers. Once a Whomper, always a Whomper as I proven this past year by shooting my all time low of 89 at Arrow Head golf course and followed that later with 124 at the same course. I convinced myself that I needed the 124 to re-qualify my WGA card before our next reunion. I still suck at the game but do enjoy Whomping that ball. I just try not to play with serious golfers because they don’t appreciate my natural abilities.

            “Yawl whomp’em good out there, you hear?”  

I had to share this FB post from a friend who recently purchased my first novel, Road Rage, priceless:

Pat Atkins Hutto: I have lost sleep reading Road Rage, thank you very much. I read when I get in the bed because it usually relaxes me, but Oh No, not this book. I can't put it down, then I dream terrible dreams. I sure will pull over on the side of the road if YOU are ever behind me. Great day. Great book.


The sequel, the next Trudy Wagner detective thriller, North of the Border is in my pubisher's hands as I peck on this keyboard. As is book #4, my story, The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In. Sometimes you have to do things wrong to get it right. You may not like me after this one but in the end, lessons are learned. Learn, laugh, cry and fuse along with me.

Let's not forget the bully adventures of Dale Thomas Jackson in Dark Thirty. If darkness wins, the battle is lost.

Writing and publishing what I write is just a hoot. Hearing what people think, good, bad or ugly makes it worth while.