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Fred and I decided to hit the links the other day and after teeing off a little before 10 a.m. we didn’t see anyone all day -- the way golf was meant to be played.

We hit good tee shots on the first hole. Fred was away and I walked over towards my ball. In a minute he was still searching his bag for a club. At last he looked over and said, “I left three clubs on the tee box.”

“Well, go and get them,” I said. This wasn’t the way golf was meant to be played. Finally he got back, hit his second shot over the green and drove up to where I stood. “Are you alright?” I asked. He grumbled something and then chipped back over the green. I decided to keep quiet. There is a time when you must leave other golfers to themselves, so they can exorcise the demons from their heads; this was one of those times.

Fred then hit a beautiful chip that almost went in and got his “gimme” bogey. I two-putted for par and, 20 minutes after teeing off, we finished the hole.

A few holes later I was suddenly unable to turn the cart’s steering wheel. When I turned a little harder something underneath popped, which seemed to fix the problem. But when we stopped Fred noticed there was something hanging underneath the cart. It was a silver, mechanical looking thing that looked to be kind of important.

I’d noticed a big cart shed close to the first green and I told Fred I would drive it back there for help. I asked him to keep looking for my lost ball, but I don’t think he did.

I could hear the silver thing scraping along the cart path as I drove back. This was definitely not way golf is supposed to be played. I arrived at the shed and called for help but no one was there. Then I called the pro shop, so not to risk more damage by driving further. The guy who answered the phone, named Chandler I think, seemed suspicious when I told my story. He said he would have preferred I left the cart where it was when the problem first occurred. It had already been a long day and I told him that I preferred he bring me a cart that worked. We got off the phone without further exchange of pleasantries.

Ten minutes later someone arrived in a new cart. He also told me before I drove off that they had experienced this many times, which made me feel better knowing it wasn’t my fault. I thought about calling Chandler in the pro shop back and telling him maybe he should put a sign up that read: “Because we have bought defective carts it is likely you won’t make it very far. Please leave the cart where it breaks down and call us.”

We finished the rest of our round without further interruptions. Walking off 18 green, a group passed by on their way to the back nine. Fred said, “Did you see what that guy was eating?”

“No, what?”

“He was eating a brat.”

In our round at another course a few weeks earlier Fred had gotten a bratwurst at the turn, which he said was the best he’d ever had.

“You’re hallucinating,” I told him.

“I know a brat when I see one,” he fired back.

“It’s been a long day,” I told him. “You’re hot, tired, thirsty and hungry, and now you’re spotting brats.”

“Let’s go to the clubhouse and I’ll prove it to you.”

So that’s what we did. And when we got there they didn’t have any brats. Never did have, the girl told us.

Which ended another perfect day.

Jay Edwards is a freelance columnist who can be reached at chips7591@gmail.com.

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