APESHIT!

I normally golf with a couple of guys that we call Grape Ape for their ability to hit the long ball. One of the usual Grape Apes couldn't make it today so there is only one Grape Ape pictured. (I'll let you figure out which one).

Yet the interesting thing about today's outing is that Chuck is holding something in his right hand over my right shoulder.

It's the head of my putter.

And I broke the bastard on purpose.

I went apeshit to be exact.

Let me set the scene because every hole was the same. Drive up the middle in the 180-220 range. 5-wood about 150 to put me on the green or the edge of the green, in two, every single time. Then a putt.

Then another putt.

Then another putt.

Finally pick up the last one figuring I'm close the frig enough.

"God lets you play golf on any given day and he gives you two of three things," Pops said. "On the days when you drive and chip well, he takes away the putter. When you putt well, you can't swing it past the ladies tee. It's God's little joke."

I wasn't amused. In fact, it all boiled over at the 14th hole on a par three where I placed my ball an inch from the back of the green. Long putt.

Still a long putt.

A longer putt.

Close the frig enough.

"You can't take that," Chcuk said about the three inches left.

I picked up the ball and tried to throw it with all my might into the woods. It went straight down and made it about twenty yards. I heard laughter over my shoulder.

Not good enough. I threw the putter towards the cart, I thought. It landed in the green. Not on the green, mind you, but in it.

Still not enough.

Grape Ape and pals were silent as I picked that freaking club up again. I knew what had to be done. 7 years of putting up with that damn putter. I reached the backside of the cart and swung with all my might.

I must admit. I wanted it to happen. I wasn't sad at all. I hate that freaking putter.

Yet, you may ask, what did I putt the rest of the round with?

I had a spare, and it was beautiful. I two-putted the rest of the way. "You scared the shit out of the new putter," Tom said.

I felt better having the tantrum too. "It felt good," I said.

"On the scale of tantrums, you're about a third-grader," Chuck chipped in.

I'm not sorry it happened. We fixed the green. That freaking putter should never see the side of a ball again.

"I'm going to fix it," Chuck said. "And I'm going to whip your ass with it and sell it back to you."

Never! I say. Never!

Good riddance to a lousy freaking instrument.

Today I was the ape.