The Battle of Bay Nine
It was a Sunday like any other at the local golf driving range, a modest little place with the usual mix of duffers, hopefuls, and those folks who couldn’t tell a nine-iron from a nine-iron skillet. The driving range had an array of covered bays that looked more like horse stalls than anything else. To be honest, they were probably the only horse stalls in town that didn’t smell like manure but still managed to house the same amount of stubborn beasts.
I was there, with my trusty driver that had the loft of an angry argument and a grip that could strangle a python. My plan was simple: whack a bucket of balls into oblivion and forget about the horrors of the workweek. Alas, fate had other plans, and they were determined to be as slapstick as possible.
After a few swings that would’ve made even Happy Gilmore cringe, I settled into a rhythm. Well, as much rhythm as someone with the grace of a drunk giraffe can muster. Then came the shot. The shot that would go down in history, or at least in the annals of my personal shame. I lined up, adjusted my stance, did that annoying little waggle that supposedly helps with balance, and swung with the ferocity of someone who’d just discovered their spouse’s browser history.
CRACK!
The ball, which I’m pretty sure I hit with the edge of the club (a new talent I didn’t know I had), careened off the edge of the bay structure. This thing, by some dark miracle of physics, ricocheted with a vengeance. It didn’t just bounce; it flew with the speed and precision of a homing missile, making a beeline straight for my gut.
WHAM!
The impact was a symphony of pain and surprise. It was as if the ghost of Jack Nicklaus himself decided to use my abdomen as a tee. I doubled over, my breath leaving me in a rush that probably could’ve powered a small turbine. As I looked down at the growing red mark, a thought struck me: “Everyone kept saying there was going to be another civil war, but I didn’t know they would use golf balls.”
And so, the Battle of Bay Nine began.
In the chaos that followed, it became clear that this was no ordinary day at the range. The stall next to me erupted with activity. A man in plaid pants (because of course he was wearing plaid pants) armed himself with a seven iron, barking orders at his caddie—a kid who looked like he’d been dragged out of a Fortnite session and thrust into a nightmare.
“Private, fetch me the pitching wedge! We’re under attack!” the plaid commander shouted, his voice echoing with a blend of bravado and terror.
From another bay, a woman with a visor that could double as a solar panel joined the fray. “Fore! FORE!” she screamed, not as a warning, but as a battle cry. She launched balls with precision that would make a sniper weep, her swings fueled by years of suppressed rage from PTA meetings and ungrateful children.
Golf carts transformed into ambulances, zipping back and forth across the range, carrying the wounded. Some poor souls, hit by their own misguided shots, were escorted off the field with the kind of reverence usually reserved for fallen warriors. Medics—really just bored teens working summer jobs—administered ice packs and words of encouragement, which mostly consisted of “You’ll be fine” and “Man, that looked like it hurt.”
Meanwhile, a squadron of golf cart cavalry appeared on the horizon, their approach marked by the hum of electric motors and the squeak of rubber tires. They were led by a man who could’ve been the love child of Tiger Woods and Patton, his visor gleaming under the sun, and a caddie by his side, lugging a bag so full of clubs it looked like he was smuggling steel rods.
“Men, this is it! Our moment of glory!” he shouted, brandishing a driver like a broadsword. “We’ll drive them back to the parking lot!”
The driving range had become a war zone. Shouts and cries filled the air, punctuated by the thwack of clubs meeting balls. The enemy—whomever they were—had managed to deploy a terrifying new weapon: the slice shot. Balls arced in from impossible angles, wreaking havoc and causing mass confusion. A nearby stall was taken out by a particularly vicious hook that sent its occupant diving for cover behind a bag of clubs.
As I clutched my aching stomach, a feeling of camaraderie washed over me. We were no longer individuals fumbling through our Saturday afternoons. We were soldiers in the great Golf Ball War, united by our collective incompetence and a shared hatred of unpredictable trajectories.
Our defenses were bolstered by an unlikely hero. Old Man Milford, a range regular who spent more time talking about his glory days than actually hitting balls, emerged from his stall with a modified putter. It had been reinforced with duct tape and what appeared to be a piece of rebar.
“Back in my day, we faced worse than this!” Milford yelled, swinging his makeshift weapon with the fervor of a man who had nothing left to lose. “I fought in the Battle of the Bunkers in ’72! This ain’t nothin’!”
With Milford leading the charge, our spirits lifted. Balls were launched with renewed vigor, each shot a symbol of our defiance. Sure, most of them still went wildly off course, but it was the thought that counted.
The enemy, sensing our resurgence, attempted a final push. From the far end of the range, their commander—a man with a tan so deep it looked like he’d spent 100 years giving lessons in the blazing sun—raised his club high. “For victory! For glory! For… the love of the game!”
His troops responded with a volley of golf balls that darkened the sky. It was like being in the middle of a very poorly coordinated meteor shower. Balls rained down around us, clinking off the metal roofs of the stalls and bouncing wildly across the grass. One particularly menacing projectile narrowly missed Milford, who responded with a string of curses that would’ve made a sailor blush.
As the battle reached its peak, I realized we needed a strategy. Something bold, something unexpected. And then it hit me—literally. A ball smacked into the side of my head, jolting my thoughts into coherence. “The sand trap!” I yelled, pointing towards the large practice bunker off to the side. “We can use it for cover!”
We scrambled towards the bunker, dodging incoming fire and diving into the soft sand. It wasn’t exactly the trenches, but it would do. From our new position, we launched a counter-offensive, using the sand to steady our shots. I’d like to say our aim improved, but that would be a lie. At least now we had a bit more time before the balls went flying into the abyss.
The enemy, seeing our tactical retreat, paused their assault. They seemed confused, unsure how to proceed now that we’d taken up a defensive position. Their hesitation gave us the opening we needed.
Old Man Milford, with the wisdom of his years and the cunning of a fox, proposed a daring plan. “We need to take out their commander,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Cut off the head, and the body will fall.”
“But how?” asked Plaid Commander, who was nursing a bruise on his arm from a close encounter with a rogue ball.
Milford grinned, revealing a set of teeth that had seen better days. “I’ve got just the thing.” From his pocket, he pulled out a ball with a distinctive red stripe—a range ball that had been tampered with, its core replaced with something much heavier. “This baby’s got the weight of a shot put. We just need to get it in range.”
The plan was simple: we’d create a distraction, drawing the enemy’s fire while Milford lined up his shot. It was risky, but at this point, we were all in.
Plaid Commander and Solar Panel Visor Lady took the lead, stepping out of the bunker and waving their clubs wildly. “Over here, you hacks!” they shouted, drawing the attention of the enemy. Balls whizzed past them, but they stood firm, giving Milford the time he needed.
With a calm that belied the chaos around him, Milford lined up his shot. He took a deep breath, his hands steady on the grip. And then, with a swing that could’ve parted the Red Sea, he sent the weighted ball flying.
Time seemed to slow as the ball arced through the air. The enemy commander, still barking orders, didn’t see it coming. The ball struck him square in the chest, knocking him off his feet and into the turf.
A cheer went up from our side as the enemy forces faltered. Their commander down, they lost their coordination, their shots going even more astray than before. Seizing the moment, we pressed the advantage, launching a final volley that sent them scurrying back to the clubhouse.
The Battle of Bay Nine was over.
As the dust settled and the injured were tended to (mostly with Band-Aids and bottled water), we gathered in the center of the range. There was no grand celebration, no victory parade. Just a group of weary warriors, united by a ridiculous but strangely exhilarating experience.
Old Man Milford, our unlikely hero, was hoisted onto a golf cart and paraded around as we sang his praises. “To Milford!” we cried, raising our clubs in salute. He waved modestly, clearly enjoying the moment.
Plaid Commander and Solar Panel Visor Lady took shots of vodka, their many convoluted golf bets forgotten in the aftermath of battle. The medics, bless their bored little hearts, handed out ice packs and aspirin, tending to the bruises.
