The Squirrel Round

Rick Mauch

Nothing comes between a man and his golf game.

My best friend and longtime golfing buddy Mark and I have played in pretty much any condition imaginable - and we both have vivid imaginations. The most memorable times we simply label as the “(fill in the blank) Round.”

There was the Snow Round, which we played about 12 years ago. While, in all transparency, it wasn’t really snowing, it was frigid cold, mid-30s at best. However, as time passes and legend grows, we now remember it as being below zero with snow so deep we had to wear snowshoes.

Then, there was the Heat Round. No real exaggeration needed here, as we walked a par-3 course in 109-degree weather with a heat index of 117.

Come to think of it, perhaps our level of sanity was exaggerated a bit as I reflect.

Ironically, we both played very well in both of those rounds. I don’t remember the scores, but I do know that we weren’t deterred from hitting the course again in freezing or sizzling conditions - still aren’t, though most hot days now we opt for a cart and most cold days it depends on whether we’ve done enough laundry to sufficiently layer ourselves.

The Squirrel Round

By now you are probably wondering what in the world the Squirrel Round could be, right?

You’re probably familiar with the Ray Stevens song with the lyrics about “The day the squirrel went berserk in the First Self Righteous Church.” Well, on this day suffice to say I went berserk on a squirrel.

Sort of.

I feel I must explain that it was purely accidental. Mark and I were playing a round at a course in Arlington, and I was having a pretty decent game. Why can’t I have a good round when circumstances are normal?

Anyway, we’re on the last hole and I hit my tee shot under a tree. Errant though it was, I still had a decent chance to make the green if I could hit a low shot, which I did.

The shot left my club just fine. Then, I hear a thwack and suddenly the ball is flying in a completely different direction to the side.

Then, I see the poor little thing lying there on the ground not far from where my shot had initially gone. “I just killed a squirrel,” I said to Mark.

We wondered aloud whether we should try picking it up and rushing it to the vet. Of course, in reminiscing neither of us is sure what we would have done had the squirrel awakened en route and wondered what in the heck was going on? After all, he was simply heading home to his family after a day of whatever it is squirrels do, only to be sidetracked by a fool with a five iron.

I poked on it, no response. Mark poked on it, no response.

After deciding to continue to play - we were, after all, on the final hole - I go to my ball and proceed to hit my third shot. At that moment, the squirrel springs back to life - perhaps it was playing possum until we left, finally giving up because we took so long - and runs right back in my path.

No, I did not hit him again. However, my ball did give him a shave the folks at Gillette would envy.

It was probably my imagination, but I could swear at this point he stopped and gave me a look as if to say, “Really dude?” And, I must admit, I felt even more embarrassed than when I actually hit him.

Now he could go home and tell his family about this idiot golfer who couldn’t control his shots if his life - or that of a wild animal - depended on it. I’m sure that, after being relieved that he was okay and it wasn’t a run-in with an inattentive automobile that delayed his arrival, they had a big laugh.

I’ve since played that same course a couple times. And yes, I look for the squirrel when we reach the final hole. I’ve not seen him again, or perhaps he’s seen me and decided it best to wait before making his way home.

Oh, and if you’re wondering, I bogeyed the hole.