Titleist dimples on my balls

Having been around golf for 30 years, it’s truly amazing I haven’t been hit more than I have. I’ve had shots rain down like hail from a blue sky and barely miss on a number of occasions. I’ve had buddies who got hit while I was playing with them (sometimes by me). But it’s only happened to me twice.

Maybe it was foreshadowing when, as an 11-year-old caddie for my dad in one of his company’s league matches, I was hit by his playing partner.

I’d walked ahead from the players to forecaddie (reader: insert proper clever literary device here) at a course along the Ohio River in Huntington, W.Va. Standing along the right side of the fairway, I was mesmerized by a low screamer the lumbering Mr. Trimble had unleashed. Flared off the head of an old persimmon driver, his Titleist was digging towards me like Q-Link marketing reps head for pros on the range at a PGA Tour event.

At the last second, I jumped straight up and twisted so my back was to the tee. This pre-yoga golf maneuver put my left ass cheek directly in front of the ball, and the impact felt like someone had laid a white hot poker on me. Bruises can be quite colorful as they heal.

Dad: My God, son, are you OK?

Me: I just puked in my mouth.

Trimble: It’s a good thing you were there. My ball was headed out of bounds.

Flash forward 25 years. I’m covering a local district golf association’s am-am championship in Columbus, Ohio. I should have been more leery of my positioning on the golf course as I covered the event because it was the handicap variety of tournament - not scratch.

So I’m standing with my camera behind a player who’s on the tee of a short par 3. When he finished with his swing, I intended to click off a few frames and get his face with his club behind his head. Standard golf photography action shot. Except this time, the 20-handicapper heels his shot with a 7-iron, barely missing his left knee.

Somewhere in the archives, there are two photographs, the first of which is a guy finishing his swing with the Noodle he’s hit steaming straight at the camera. The second is a particularly nice shot of a patch of green grass and my shoes.

Tagged me right in the scrote. Gave new meaning to dimples. Luckily, it got the middle part of the two-ball sleeve, so it wasn’t that painful. I couldn’t tell, when I could finally draw a breath, whether the guy was more embarrassed or amused. He didn’t say anything to me, and I certainly wasn’t in shape to chase him down. He took X on the hole, because he never came and got his ball from between my feet.