Yesterday, I was out on the driving range practicing. Next to me stood an older guy, probably in his fifties, cocky behaviour, overweight, yet wearing white pants and shirt a little too tight for him. His blonde girlfriend was some 15 years younger than him and she was wearing the biggest Gucci sunglasses ever.
The guy, let’s call him the viagra stallion, had the newest equipment: TiCad trolley, leather cart bag, all new Taylormade Driver and Woods, bright and shiny. He was whacking away with the big stick, probably trying to impress his girlfriend. Problem was, he didn’t hit a single proper shot. He scattered the balls left and right, only a few made it past the 100 meter marker. Instead of taking a break or swinging slower, he tried to hit it even faster.
I couldn’t avoid to grin and he had probably noticed, giving me an angry look. So I decided to put him on a little bit, matching every shot of his. He – all the time playing driver – shot 100 meters, I took PW and shot 100 meters, he made it to 150 meters, I took my 6 iron. One very bad shot barely rolled to the 50 meter marker, so I grabbed my lobwedge and my ball gently rolled past his.
It was driving him mad, you could tell. He barked “I’m done!” at his girlfriend, and stumped away, her hurrying up to catch up with him. Walking back from the chipping green, I saw them again on the first tee. He furiously stared at me, I just smiled and waved at him.
His drive went 100 meters into the right rough. Dude, here’s a video for you!