Not sure what I
was doing, Wrent and Histor went back to the tree to look for the ball. The
sound was so loud, they thought it hit the tree trunk.
Stot was beside me
sending out a line of non-profane exclamations. “Can you walk?” he asked.
I shook my head,
gritting my teeth. My ankle just dangled. Hobbling over to a bench, Wrent and
Histor questioned, “What happened to you?” turning toward me.
seeing my swollen ankle with nearly a full set of golf ball dimples making
their impression upon my flesh, they understood.
“OH MY G--! Did
the ball hit your ankle? It sounded like a tree trunk!”
“I know! I thought
it hit the tree trunk, too!” added Wrent.
Get me a bag of ice!” I moaned.
I had so many
physical ailments to that point, I scorned more.
Histor and Stot
rode off in the golf cart. Wrent stayed next to me. I do not remember the words
we exchanged in this moment, I only remember the throbbing pain that started at
my ankle and spread far in every direction, down to my toes and up to my knee.
I took slow, deep
breaths. Some time later a beverage cart driver appeared, bringing a big bag of
ice. She motioned for me to sit in the golf cart. The guys helped me over. I
sat down and placed the ice on my ankle, resting it on the cart dash.
Stot got in the
driver's seat. “Nice way to get yourself a cart,” he laughed.
“Can you still
play?” asked Histor.
I scowled. “I can
try,” I replied stepping out onto the fairway. Giving it a brave attempt, there
was just no way.
“Are you seriously
going to try?” mocked Stot. He laughed at my effort.
I got back in the
cart. “Are you going to the hospital?” asked Wrent.
“Yeah. But I just
want to rest a couple minutes with some ice on my ankle,” I answered.
Histor and I are going to finish, if you don't mind.”
What is it with
men's loyalty to golf before all else?
“I will take you
when you are ready,” Stot affirmed.
I think I was
ready. Yet, I remember sitting in the cart for two hours with a bag on my