I didn't want to let the magic of that flush round die, so after I sank my last putt I emptied all the balls from my bag and flawlessly pumped them out into the fairway using the newfangled grip that was the cause for the metamorphosis in my game. After my last shot went straight as an arrow 320 yards toward the 18th tee, I maintained the secret grip on my driver, ran to the clubhouse and began kicking the door to get the pro's attention. I should've known better, what with the Jefferson County mafia being in there engrossed in a poker game, but I knew how precious and few golfing discoveries are, and I had to document my grip with photos before my shaky coconut forgot it.
After a few kicks the pro stormed outside cussing and reminded me that the clubhouse was closed. Then he grabbed me by the collar and gave me a firm shake while asking if I was too good to knock on the door with my hand, like a normal person. I explained that I had discovered the perfect grip, and that I couldn't let loose of the club until someone photographed it from all angles so it would remain with me always and forever throughout my golfing days.
As a golf pro he could empathize with me, but as a businessperson he had to make the difficult decision of banning me from Misty River, for fear that I was going off my rocker and might do harm to one of the club's well-heeled members. He said he had gotten bad reports about my screaming fits and club throwing from the summer and fall before, but he had cut me a break because of my $100-a-week habit at the course.
A tear was hanging on my cheek, and without loosening my treasured grip, I brushed my face with the sleeve of my windbreaker. Then, instead of walking back to the 18th green and putting my driver in my bag, I began walking down the driveway away from the clubhouse, toward I57. The pro knew I lived in Marion and probably thought I was going to walk on the shoulder the entire 45 miles home.
Actually, I planned to walk a mere six miles to the Kmart in Mount Vernon and get an employee to take pictures of my grip from all angles with one of those cheap disposable cameras. I was willing to pay $40 plus the cost of the friggin' camera for the service--shoot, yes!--but had barely gotten outside the gate at Misty River when some flunky from a private security firm stopped me on the road, ordered me to drop the driver and said he was taking me downtown for the crime of disturbing the peace at the clubhouse. I'd lost my grip and didn't really care what the authorities did with me.
And Then I Died
The security guy took me to the Jefferson County police station, and although no charges were filed against me, I was quickly transported to the county courthouse and made to sit in a holding cell while the judge finished up that day's traffic cases.
When I was called into court, the sheriff handed the judge my file and His Honor and the state's attorney gave it a brief look. Then the judge somberly asked me if I had anything to say for myself about the grave indiscretion I had committed yonder at Misty River, at which point my court-appointed attorney snickered and said, "Your honor, he's guilty of kicking the clubhouse in the first degree."
The judge asked if I agreed with my attorney, and my attorney had to elbow me in the ribs because he could see my attention was riveted not on the judge but instead upon the bombshell babe doing the court recording. The state's attorney blew snot when he saw me grimace from the blow, after which I proceeded to tell the judge about the beautiful game of golf and how it had been a long and winding road for me since that first purely struck two-wood in 1973, but that I'd finally discovered the proper way to grip a club, and would His Honor really mind if the sheriff would be so kind as to fetch my driver out on the county road and bring it to the courthouse so my new grip could be photographed from all angles for my peace of mind.
The judge then brought down his hammer and instructed the sheriff to have me, not my grip, photographed front, right and left, and said that I was not to set foot on a golf course within 150 miles of Marion for three years. His Honor cautioned that my photo would be displayed in the pro shop of all those golfing establishments to prevent me from sneaking in a round.