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Two golfers and a cart in need of a fescue rescue

By: Doug Speirs

Posted: 07/16/2012 3:17 AM | Comments: 0

There are lots of things a columnist with my unique blend of skills should never be allowed to do, and driving a golf cart is certainly one of them.

I was reminded of this the other day when I took part in a charity golf tournament at one of those posh courses that normally does not allow low-quality golfers like me onto their property unless required to do so by federal law.

I ended up behind the wheel because my playing partner -- one of my colleagues who, for the purposes of this column, I am going to refer to as "Kevin," because that's his name -- insisted driving a golf cart would make it impossible for him to continually apply sunscreen to the parts of his body not protected by his fluorescent Hawaiian shirt, which I am confident can be seen from the International Space Station.

At the start of the tournament, there we were, a happy little armada of golf carts, moseying along at the speed of airport luggage, in a confused convoy attempting to find our assigned locations on the convoluted course.

As we chugged up a hill, I was reminded of the children's story The Little Engine That Could, except instead of chanting "I-think-I-can-I-think-I-can" in an affirmation of the importance of optimism and perseverance, our golf cart loudly wheezed "I-know-I-can't-I-know-I-can't," unhappy about being driven by a golfer the size of a major kitchen appliance.

Our cart's distress did not go unnoticed by the people who run this exclusive course, so after the first hole, they had Kevin and I switch to a high-powered, state-of-the-art golf cart equipped with some manner of GPS that beeps angrily if you drive somewhere you are not supposed to go. On top of that, if you do not leave the Forbidden Area immediately, the cart shuts off its power, leaving you stranded until golf course officials can hunt you down and scowl at you.

This is just one of the wonderful ways technology has improved the ancient game of golf. Throughout the day, it sounded like this:

Me: "Maybe my ball is over there."

Kevin: "Sure, let's drive over and look."

Our Golf Cart: "NO! BEEP! BEEP! ARE YOU INSANE?"

The places our smart golf cart didn't want to go were usually parts of the course covered in fescue. To the untrained observer, such as you or I, fescue simply resembles tufts of long, wild grass and weeds. To the trained eyes of our golf cart and the operators of the course it is, in fact, a sacred foliage that needs to be protected from commoners, much like the Royal Family.

"BEEP! BEEP!" our cart would squeal angrily as we neared the fescue. If anyone was foolish enough to actually roll into this restricted zone, an outraged golf course marshal would magically materialize, waving his arms frantically, his face turning bright crimson, shrieking like the singer from a punk rock band: "GET OUT OF THE FESCUE!!!"

When that happened, bug-eyed players would scurry away like frightened rabbits, carts beeping, tails tucked between their golf shorts, quietly muttering a phrase that sounds a lot like "fescue" but can't be printed in a family newspaper.

So it was a fun day on the course for everyone. In fact, Kevin and I are still trapped out there somewhere, because our golf cart shut down for reasons we do not clearly understand. If you follow the non-stop beeping and shrieking, you should be able to find us.

You should probably bring a weed whacker with you, because this wild grass is starting to get pretty high.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition July 16, 2012 A2

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