Yesterday, I played in the annual AA Golf Tournament with the same three guys I played with last year. Apparently, we are all as mature as immature thirteen year old’s. My friend Chuck, who is my age, was getting ready to tee off. If you hit straight out, you would have a nice lie in the fairway. But, recovering alcoholics all have one thing in common. I don’t care if you’re 16 or 86, male or female, liberal or conservative, black or white. Everything is more, bigger, faster. With that said, we all watched as Chuck practiced his best Happy Gilmore swing, because he was going to attempt to shave off 350 yards of fairway, by hitting over 300 yards of water. He crushed it, but it hit the water, only 10 yards short of the fairway. Rich asked him where he learned that swing. Chuck said Badminton. That gave birth to the word shuttlecock. I replied, giggling, that I would like a shuttlecock. This led to ten minutes of the following:
“That’s a beautiful shuttlecock“
“You really nailed that shuttlecock“
“The tip of my shuttlecock is broken”
“He hit her right in the ass with his shuttlecock“
“You really got that shuttlecock up high”
“He can’t get his shuttlecock up”
We beat that into the ground, because that’s what we do best. But once that had been exhausted, the real fun began. 15 holes of “That’s what she said.”
“I keep hitting short of the hole.”
that’s what she said.
“I’ve got extra balls in my bag if you need them.”
that’s what she said.
“I need to nail this one right down the center.”
that’s what she said.
“No matter how I hit it, I keep going to the right.”
that’s what she said.
“Hit it lightly, you just need a little up and down action.”
that’s what she said.
“just tap it in.”
that’s what she said.
“I’ve got to clean my balls, they’re filthy.”
that’s what she said.
“My balls have my initials on them.”
that’s what she said.
“Put it back in your stance, and choke up on it.”
that’s what she said.
“Throw me another ball.”
that’s what she said.
“I’ve got a steel shaft on mine.”
that’s what she said.
“Make sure you’re turning the head over.”
that’s what she said.
“You’ve really got to get down on that one.”
that’s what she said.
“I keep coming up short.”
that’s what she said.
“My short game sucks.”
that’s what she said.
“Leave it just short of the hole.”
that’s what she said.
“You want to hook that to the left.”
that’s what she said.
“You need to slice that to the right.”
that’s what she said.
“You might want to lay up.”
that’s what she said.
“Her balls are pink.”
that’s what she said.
“His balls have State Farm on them.”
that’s what she said.
Every time, every time, we cracked up as if it had been the first time we had ever heard it. The object of the game became get them to laugh in their back swing. If that happened, silent tear laughter ensued.
We had a great day, we didn’t win, but we also didn’t care, it was a great day.
That night at my son’s baseball game, I was standing with a group of parents. One of the apparently uncool fathers said, “he’s not throwing his balls very well tonight” and before I could stop it, it came flying out of my mouth. “That’s what she said.” It went over like a lead balloon, to an audience of crickets.
