A Fraud on the Golf Course

Goats roam the King's Course at Waikoloa

December 22, 2016, WAIKALOA, HAWAI'I—At the King's Course at Waikoloa, John the cart attendant immediately sniffed us out as the frauds we were. We are not golfers. Caroline could be a golfer if she practiced more, and I could be a golfer if golfing didn't require a golf swing, which is something I do not have and likely something I will never acquire. But even by the loosest definition, we are not golfers. Nevertheless, John the cart attendant was gracious. He stared at our shoes and attire—which presented a stark contrast to the dapper, professional looking ensembles worn by the high-dollar Japanese business tycoons who were cementing million-dollar land deals during a casual round of 18—and told us to remember that the score was far less important than whether we were enjoying ourselves.

"Good to know," I said thoughtfully as we headed to the first tee.

Complicating our lack of practice and innate skill was the fact that neither of us were playing with our own clubs. We were using the ratty sets furnished by the condo owner. When we had arrived at the course, the guy at the pro-shop had hopefully inquired whether the owners had something newer than the sets stashed at the course. He winced when we said no. I suddenly understood the guy's look as I stood on the third tee holding a club with a slick and rotting grip, overlooking an expanse of jagged lava to the left and a waste area to the right. And while the King's Course had been dubbed a "Links-Style Course in Paradise" on the brochures, all I was seeing was a narrow chute of green sandwiched between the jaws of hell.

One sleeve of balls later I took a drop near the green. At least I got off with a two putt. As I moped toward the cart, I saw a Japanese man in a perfect Nike golf ensemble standing on the tee box behind us with his hands on his hips. I decided we'd let the vexed man play through, so I waved him toward us. His tee shot was flawless and landed within inches of the pin. He drove up and sneered at us with disdain as he grabbed his putter. Caroline, who had been feeling stiff from traveling, took the delay as an opportunity to loosen up by doing the downward dog yoga pose on the grass next to the green just as the man sized up his six-inch putt. I ran up behind her, grabbed her hips, and dry humped her from behind just as the man was beginning his stroke. The ball shot past the hole as I pretended to ride a bull and waved my ball cap into the air like a rodeo cowboy.

You can find two sleeves of these bad boys out there.

"Yippie cay-aye!"

The golf shark finished off with a bogey and drove onto the next hole muttering a string of what must have been obscenities.

It took me two holes to shake off the idea that I had messed with the wrong person and would suffer reprisal from the Yakuza later on, but those thoughts disappeared when I smacked an amazing drive within 40 yards of the pin on a short par 4. Two shots later I exited the green with a smile and a birdie.

On the next hole, Caroline hit a similarly amazing shot. As we approached the green, we were startled to see a gang of goats meandering near the flag. Caroline nailed the stick with her chip shot, and the ball landed with a thump next to the hole. The sound of the ball smacking the fiberglass pin had enraged a Billy Goat and he thundered up onto the green, taking an offensive stance with his horns pointed menacingly toward our private parts.

"God-damned Yakuza have their tendrils into everything," I muttered, waving the goat off with my putter. 

Lots of places to eat, but this should not be one of them.

The game took an entirely different turn afterward, and we stopped keeping score. As we made our way up the 18th fairway—an exhausting par 5 that seemed to be home to an army of goats—a light drizzle cooled us down just enough for a final push. Caroline hit an approach shot that miraculously checked up just short of a deep, gaping lava abyss that I had dubbed Pele's Asshole. My long putt for par nailed the cup but bounced off, coming to rest inches from the mark. Caroline stood at the edge of the lava bung-hole and chipped a beautiful shot onto the green, finishing up with a respectable bogey.

The course was nearly deserted and the clubhouse and pro shop were empty at the end of the long day. But John the cart attendant emerged cheerfully from the dark garage beneath the clubhouse.

"How'd it go?" he asked with a hopeful grin.

"It's not so much about the score, but rather whether we enjoyed ourselves," I said. "Right?"

I slapped a fine tip into his hand.

"By the way, you guys don't have the Yakuza on this island, do you?"

"Yakuza? What is that? A type of rum?" he asked. "If so, I'm sure it's here."

See you on down the road!