A Hole in Wrong One
Camping season has begun! I know this because for the past week I’ve been stuck behind trailers that don’t need to beat the Tim Hortons rush and still get to work on time – Jerks. However, I do love the peacefulness of camping. The fire crackling. The birds singing. The morning silence. The family arguing at the next campsite. This peacefulness always comes to a sudden halt as soon as I arrive at the golf course.
Throughout the nine holes (eighteen is out of the question), golfers on the other fairways can hear more “ughhhs” than “yippees!” from my direction. Heck, they won’t even hear “fore” since I can’t get the ball that far.
It is one of the most frustrating sports. The most frustrating part is you have no one else to blame. Hence, why golf courses not only sell liquor, but they serve it right to you.
I catch myself mesmerized by the mowers, judging the length of grass surrounding the tree trunks and checking if the bunkers are raked properly. The only individual who would notice such aspects of a golf course would be someone who worked maintenance on one. Yes, that someone is me.
For three Summers, I was a Parks Play Leader for a program funded by the city. I needed the recreation experience and the money for beer, I mean textbooks back at University.
Since the Parks Play program didn’t start until the middle of the summer, we were assigned to various locations across the city. I was placed at the golf course.
As much as I whined about the early mornings, heavy weed whips and mediocre coffee, I did work with an absolutely incredible crew of men. They were patient and accepting even when I didn’t have a clue what I was doing half of the time…
Not long before, Who’s in the Dog House, I was almost in it.
It was just like any other 5:00am morning except this morning I was honoured with the task of driving the bunker rake. I practically skipped to the machine since that meant I didn’t have to physically rake. The bunker rake was low on gas so my supervisor with far too much confidence, directed me to the gas tanks by the shop.
I shook in my steal toed boots as I approached the tanks and contemplated asking for assistance, but how hard could it be? I fill my vehicle’s gas tank somewhat often.
Everything felt right as I screwed the cap back on and bounced away. Until I glanced down at the gas gage and noticed the arrow was still pointing to the “E”.
By this point I needed to ask for assistance and waved over Jordan, a golf course veteran.
He unscrewed the cap and I thought hm that is definitely not the cap I unscrewed.
I shifted in the seat and asked, “the gas can go here too right?” I pointed to a cap on the opposite side.
Jordan smirked and replied, “no…that’s for the hydraulic oil.”
Whoops.
Now, this was no easy fix. I will not humiliate myself more by going into detail of how this was resolved, but needless to say I hand raked that morning.
As frustrated as I can get during a round of golf, I think my supervisor was more frustrated with me.
