On Saturday, Nate and I took a quick jaunt up the road to the golf course. We reached the guard house and asked, quite politely, if we could continue to the course. False. That was not possible. We were quite suspicious. We should return to from where whence we came. We were, at the very least, hurt. (Nate: "Pissed!")
On Sunday, we secured ourselves a tee time. This time with a ride, a car, and tucked in shirts to communicate the degree to which we were serious and not, I repeat, NOT the shady characters our facial hair might indicate. We played a hell of a round with Noah lacing drives upwards of 280 meters which roughly translates to the distance between here and New York. Huge. Nate, ironing out a low fade, even flirted with a draw, shot an 89 on the most challenging course in northern South Africa. I struggled to let myself have fun and then stormed down the back nine and sent the course a message. On a course playing 7,200 yards, and a few less meters, our threesome survived the southern winter, shot the lights out and refused to lose.
nate, keep the facial hair. she likes it.
ReplyDelete