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.