Sometimes, golf isn’t about ankle-deep mud, or Sergio Garcia’s bigotry. Sometimes, it’s about a group of friends coming together to threaten each other’s lives.
Just off hole 17, five friends are deciding who is going to hold the beer while some of them run into the merchandise tent. One of them tries to balance his beer precariously on a potted plant. This is met by coarse shouting and at least one notification that he is a jackass.
This collective, featuring golfers of various sound levels and accents, is the Idiots Golf Association, out on a field trip to catch Tiger Woods in action, or whatever.
“If Philly.com wants a lot of hits tomorrow, don’t come here,” says the league chairman, Stinky. “Follow us around on the municipal course tomorrow morning instead of this stupid tournament.”
The IGA maintains a roster of nicknames (Stinky, Chili Dipper, Bonk, The Brit) as various as where they all hail from (Doylestown, New York, London).
One guy standing off to the side doesn’t have a name. “I’m not a part of it yet. I’m on a probationary level,” he explained.
“We’re working on a name for him,” Bonk, the New Yorker, said. “By the end of the day, we should have one.”
Then they argue for a while about whether or not The Brit’s name is “The Brit” or just “Brit.”
Stinky is hesitant to introduce himself further, as he works for the government and, like most of us, has some concerns about the NSA. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t sitting atop a highly functioning golf league: The IGA held a Scotland Open two years ago, and is currently accepting registrants for their Pocono Cup.
“It’s a great tournament,” he says. “There’s a lot of cursing and drinking.”
“It’s a small tour, it’s the four of us,” Bonk explains, literally ignoring the fifth guy. Probation in the IGA is an intimidating concept. “We also have the best golf pool ever, because it’s a golf survivor tournament. You have to pick one player, that’s it, one time a year, and you get a win. And you know whose winning that right now? This guy,” he said, pointing proudly at his own chest.
“That is a terrible description of what it is,” Chili Dipper intervened.
Bonk buckles at this. “Yes it is! That’s exactly what it is!”
“Every week you pick two guys, you just can’t pick the same guy! What the hell’s the matter with you?!”
“It’s not a suicide pool, you pick different golfers!”
“It’s suicide if you keep doing this!”
Stinky smiles and nods from his position in the banter’s crossfire. “We’re just a bunch of idiots.”
There are bunches of idiots out there who haven't organized international golf outings, so the IGA and their boldness in going up against the USGA tomorrow morning makes them an admirable group.
"What hole is this?" The Brit asks.
“He’s actually the dumbest of us,” Stinky says.