Golf Banging

What a pleasing sound a golf ball makes when it is thrown against a garage door.

There is no other “thunk” sound quite like it.  

Wooden tilt up, metal skinned roll up, side to side slider; it doesn’t matter, the contact of hard small hand thrown golf ball against the door rings with the peal of joyful bells.

Yes, I know, as an adult, knowing what I know today, of dents, scuffed paint, and chipped trim; I am supposed to find the sound repulsive.  And perhaps I do, for I haven’t heard it in decades.  But, in my memory at least, golf ball on garage door peals with the bright joyful gong of freedom and exhilaration.

I remember the summer my brothers and I first learned that sound. We were instantly smitten. 

We would get together after dinner, sometimes just the three of us, sometimes with a few friends, and we ventured out into the quiet neighborhoods of town each with as many golf balls as they could carry.  We would spread up and down a block, or two, and throw those hard dimpled white rocks at garage doors.  Then we’d race up the sidewalk, past other boys doing the same thing, laughing and racing to stay out of trouble with the enraged homeowners.

The only limitations were the speed of our flying legs;

the darkness of the night;

and our supply of golf balls.

Having little “free-money” we had to scrounge our little white missiles. 

We used to find one or two out in the tall grass at the high-school, lost and left behind by someone using the football field to practice their driving I suppose; or outside the fence line around the miniature golf range outside of town; sometimes at garage sales; and once in a while lying in a gutter among a damp pile of leaves that didn’t quite make it to the drain grate.

Being the youngest, I tended to often find myself needing to justify my place in the rat pack that was my childhood.  

Especially as along with being the youngest, I was built a bit more solidly, not quite as lithe and fast as my two older brothers. Not as handsome, as strong.  So whether it was securing golf balls for throwing, or any other task, I just naturally felt that I had to outdo my brothers; just to be as good as they were.

Imagine then my joys one day while out scrounging golf balls to raise my head up and find an entire field strewn with the little white treasures.

I had been sneaking around the newly opened Las Positas golf course.  First working the area between the fence and the freeway, then around the parking lot, and finally along the narrow creeks and waterways that crossed the property.

Pickings were pretty slim as you might expect at a newly opened course.  Not many lost balls to be found yet.  And then, I raised my head.  And before me stretched a green grass area that was literally covered in white golf balls.

I looked to the right and could see the fence line next to the freeway, and while the cars along the road could see me, none of them was going to care. 

I looked as far to the left as I could and saw just the brush that had been planted along the watercourse sweeping outward away from the creek.  

I deciding that it was safe, I ventured out above the berm and started to scurry around picking up golf balls.  I got one, two, five, ten and still there were hundreds more.  I became so engrossed in grabbing golf balls that I forgot to keep checking to my left and right as I moved further and further away from the cover of the creek.

I was gonna be rich.  

I would set up a little “Used Ball” stand in the parking lot on Saturdays, and still have more than I could possibly throw.

I kept gathering balls until…until…until balls started raining down around me and I became aware that several people were yelling.

Looking up and left, I found myself staring straight at the back side of the Clubhouse and a row of golfers standing on the driving range firing golf balls in my direction.

Some guy was jumping in a little VW that had wide sweeping arms on the sides and wire mesh over the windows and I heard the engine fire up.

Panicking, I realized that I had walked right out onto the driving range about 180 yards from the tees.

I ran for it.

It was a muddy, wet, escape route.  I had to throw myself into the water, and several times duck my head and hold my breath for ever so long.

But I got away.

Because of my narrow escape, I never set up that used ball stand.  No extra spending money for me.  It just didn’t seem like the smart thing to do all-in-all.

But boy, did the visions of garage doors stretch into the future as far as I could imagine.

© Copyright 2014 Marty K Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved