Just as a watched pot never boils (even though that is precisely what it does) time doesn’t speed up when you are anxious for an incredible golf weekend getaway.
Some guy named Tate was picking me up at 6:30 am. Not because we are friends, but because he needed to borrow my extra golf bag. The reason he doesn’t have a golf bag is almost as ridiculous as him not having the literal other half of what is customary to play golf.
Mrs. Hack gave me specific instructions to let the dog out, and also, under no circumstances, wake her up. After I made a 64 oz. coffee on our industrial machine and dragged my clubs out of the hall closet, then played the tuba for 20 straight minutes – she was up.
“Hack! Seriously!”, she yelled.
I bounded out the door.I stood in the driveway like a kid waiting on the ice cream truck. Next to me was my suitcase, two cases of beer, my golf clubs, and annoyingly, an extra golf bag. As I scrolled through my phone, a text popped up from a number I didn’t recognize.
*Hey Hack. It’s Aunt Terry. I hate to tell you this over text but your Uncle passed away on Thursday and the funeral is Sunday. Hoping you could be there and say a few words.*
This didn’t affect me much. Not because he wasn’t a great guy, rather because I thought he had died years ago. I hadn’t seen him at any family functions for years. It turns out he was bedridden and cared for by a 24-hour nurse over the last three years. It made sense that I never saw him.
I sat there and stared at the message deciding how I was going to respectfully decline the invitation to speak due to my previously planned two-day golf excursion.
Do I tell the truth? Could I make something up that she would understand?
To be clear, never did I think about canceling this trip in order to go to the middle of nowhere and utter the words, “he was a good guy and he will be missed.” I am sure he will be missed, but I had already missed him years ago. There was peace with his absence in my life.
I pounded out a few options, only to erase quickly after typing. I know that she saw the dreaded bubbles, and now I’m panicking. I sent her a crying emoji first. Then I added the breaking heart.
My thumbs hit the keys: “He was a great guy and will be missed.” After I sent the confirmation, I threw my phone into the street. Tate drove up and ran over it. I got out of the funeral.Tate bought me a new phone. I went golfing.
The embodiment of angst, frustration, and a tortured golf soul. He was sentenced by a County Judge to cathartically dispell his anger that was once targeted at his golf instructor. This is the Diary of a Hack.
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