As we advanced to the back 9, the rain continued to fall. None of us were prepared to bear the burdens of loss brought on by bad weather and even worse skill levels. Long favored discs, unworthy of our wet, virgin hands had been cast into soaked and briar infested under growth. Cedar tree tops gladly swallowed our offerings with no chance of return.
My new waffle weave towel, from Doomsday Discs, was soaked with rain, mud, puncture blood, tears, snot and sadness. I continued to reach for it, to clean the discs, but it was a tragic comedy. Only smearing the present grime and adding more. Like an ego driven step dad, I wiped and wiped, hoping against hope that that the disc would somehow miraculously love me back and come clean from this vapid diaper I was rubbing against it.
I was facing 250 feet across a pond absolutely dancing with heavens tears. It seemed to swell and undulate at the thought of me sacrificing another of my few remaining discs. I began to sob softly, hands blindly turning my last driver in a circle through the rotting corpse that was my towel. The sobs grew until my will was near extinction. I've never quit a round, never, but what hope was there? What left to gain besides more misery? And then I realized.
I. HAD. BOUGHT. 2.
The second waffle weave towel from Doomsday Discs was still in its cellophane wrapper, meditating at the bottom of my bag, oblivious to the present horrors, prepared to stand and deliver.
I wiped my driver off and still threw it in the pond. Great towels!
