The Curse

by Ken Carpenter

I have always been one to dream dreams that make little or no sense, leading me to believe that if there is any significance to them at all, it would take a black magic wizard to interpret them. Until now, that is, for I recently dreamed another senseless vision that seemed to have a drastic side effect.
I put a curse on Tiger Woods.
For those of you who have been dwelling in a cave for ten years, Tiger Woods is the Michael Jordan of professional golf. He has earned more money than any golfer in history, he is a six-time player of the year and he has been the number one ranked golfer in the world for most of his ten-year career.
Lest you think I am a golf nut, perish the thought. I haven’t golfed in years, I rarely watch it more than a few minutes at a time on TV when I am channel surfing, and I happen to think that the primary result of the game is to cause more moaning and groaning than any other game in history. As a dedicated sports nut though, it is hard to totally ignore golf if you read the sports page and watch Sportscenter on ESPN.
As for Woods, I have nothing against him, but his records don’t mean beans to me. I care about home runs, touchdowns and slam-dunks, not nattily dressed gentlemen spoiling a good stroll on a golf course.
Getting back to the subject at hand, Tiger had not missed the cut on a major tournament since he became a pro. For the golf challenged, that means he never failed to qualify for the tournament itself by shooting too high of a score in the preliminary rounds. Not until he showed up in my dream last week, that is.
For the record, I do not have a habit of dreaming about famous people. There is no logical answer to explain why Tiger Woods and I were golfing a round together in dreamland. I would much prefer to play catch with David Ortiz.
It is also a downright disgrace that the only clothing I had on for this delusional round of golf were a pair of lime green Army boots and a strategically placed, purple plaid golf club cover (to be known in the future as “The Golfer’s Figleaf”). Tiger was attired in black and tan Nike golf wear, and he seemed not to notice my ridiculous appearance.
Nor does it make any sense that I was packing a beat up cardboard box under my arm to hold my pitiful collection of clubs. I had one driver that was at least six feet long and as wobbly as a drunken stork’s legs. Even worse were the three putters with two-foot long broom type handles and assorted kitchen implements for heads, and those four clubs were all I had.
I have to admit, the wire whisk did work pretty good to hit balls out from under the table in the clubhouse. For some reason, that is where I ended up on every drive.
Tiger was very patient with me, and he held the windows open for me when I was trying to whack the ball back outside. He didn’t even laugh at me when the ball ricocheted off the fireplace and drove me to my knees with a blow to the crotch.
He was every inch a gentleman, and I feel bad for putting a hex on him that caused him to miss the cut on his first tournament after the death of his father. It was the U.S. Open too, a double whammy.
Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, you never know.
There could easily have been a fireplace with evil intentions lurking somewhere on that course, camouflaged as a ball washer.
If so, future generations of Woods owe me.