May 25, 2016
This story, based on an occurrence at Los Lagos GC, was submitted by NCGA member William Roth
Not all feet on a golf course wear golf shoes.
It was on the 10th tee at my favorite venue. I had just delivered my tee shot into a wretched bunker about the size of Montana and was fumbling around for my sand wedge, when Kevin, one of our foursome, yelled, “Hey! Check out your cart!”
I pivoted. In front of me, only 40 feet away, an audacious red fox was in mid-heist from cart 42, and in his bite was the styrofoam container containing the turkey and swiss sandwich my wife sent from home.
“Hey!” I yelled, half expecting Mr. Fox to drop the purloined sandwich box given his fear of a retired high handicapper in righteous pursuit! Seriously? The cart path became his Diamond Lane! Fifty yards later with a coronary event looming, I dropped back; apprehension was delusional.
Within another 25 yards, walking, I spotted the furry felon! He was lying on a knoll about a gap wedge away secure in his perception that no penalty would accrue to him either here or in some alternate universe. He wasted little time in liberating the contents from its non fox-proof container creating a small styrofoam blizzard. I was too late for the party. Not to mention, uninvited.
The walk back to the 10th tee, empty handed, was humbling. Apres lunch, the fox went “dark” but he had succeeded in depriving me of my favorite sandwich, although he might have been hoping to score the clubhouse Tuesday Special: linguini and clams.
The guys in my foursome, now delirious, were eager to exploit the situation. “Didn’t the fox wanna stay for dessert?” comes to mind.
Followed by, “Hey! Is your golf cart zoned for “fox take-out”!”
Stan added, “You’re going to enjoy my idea for your next career, Bill” (Like a bad haircut I assumed.)
Stan erupted. “Fox catering!”
I could really use a “birdie” about now.
After two more hours of unremarkable golf, my command of the game promising to ‘flat-line’ into perpetuity, we retired to the bar where the fox tale (no pun intended), had been generously enlarged; some disagreement surfaced regarding whether or not the fox was actually wearing a ski mask.
The problem stems from golfers sharing their lunch with foxes, animating the creatures, raising their expectation that every golf cart is a trolling “fox deli”, a practice that predictably sets a marshall’s hair on fire.
If foxes could be polled, it’s likely that 4 out of 5 would award a course five stars for providing a memorable “alfresco” dining experience.
After golf, back at home, my wife greeted me with: “Did you eat the sandwich I made for you? (This curiosity derives from that singular occasion when I, on a previous outing, opted for a hot dog, returning at days end with her sandwich uneaten as it were.)
Wishing to spare her the fox travail, I said, “Of course I did! You know how much I love turkey and swiss!” And she said, “We ran out of turkey last week! I fixed you tuna and tomato!”
“Tuna and tomato?”, I came clean. “A fox ate it!”
She said, “A fox?”
“Yes. You remember! Foxes are furry, look like a dog, and are likely smart enough to pass the DMV written test the first time.”
“But where did he come from?”
“I haven’t a clue and I’m guessing ‘Fox-book’ hasn’t been invented yet.”
“…and you just let him have your sandwich?”
“Honey, the fox didn’t call ahead! This was a spontaneous act executed with cunning and guile!”
“Well, I believe the fox chose to make his move after observing that I wasn’t getting my hips through my turn, thus my errant shot.”
“Really? This is not your ‘father’s carnivore’!”
“I would agree.”
“So what are you gonna do the next time another fox invades your space while you’re messing up on the tee?”
“Maybe take a second sandwich…”
“A second sandwich?? What do you call that?”