Early tee time, late post. Not much doing here. Rest day in sunny Mildura. Still 543 clicks from Melbourne town.
Rest day equals coaches golf. A decent combine: Javier Crone, King Jofra Loughman, Field Marshall Thomas the Tank Evans. And a three-day sober me — which will be broken tonight, with discretion.
Arriving, we were met by a member of DJ Trump’s homeland security detail. Yes, we looked like outta-towners, but really.
“You blokes book?” “Online” — with a proper I-hate-tech-stuff look — “or yews ring?”
Field Marshall: “Not sure, probably called — Shane Koop was mentioned.” “Shane who?” Tank: “Yeh, don’t know.” Then the jump-master suggests we mistakenly called Tasmania’s Riverside, or Melbourne’s Riverside.
“Nope, it’s this Riverside. The Mildura one.”
“You playing in the comp?” The club collects the comp fees. Operating costs to pay, know what I mean.
“Do we have to?” “It’ll help us.” Well we are then. “So can we get a game?” Reasonable question I thought. “Course you can.”
The pro shop starts to swell. Locals circling. The 3-marker looking like he’s just finished night shift. Thirty-something dad with two bin lids under the age of five booking his cart — we’re still left standing. Ol’ mate pointing at a computer: “Yews gotta register there. What tees you off?” “You’re off blue.” “OK, we’re off blue.” “Look, you’ve got the field behind you — two groups — best you get going.” “Did you want us to pay?” “Shit, yeh.”
Here’s the money shot. Outta-town rate coming. “Carrying or need a trolley?” How many fucking questions. Get a move on — and by the way, here’s another one. “Where’s the first tee?” “Out there.” Pointing randomly.
We made it to the tee. A few pars, maybe two or three budgies, no large birds. Got hit up on, dodged a few rogue drives, finished in just under four hours, and got the flock outta there.
Stableford: 32 pts, 31, 28, and 20-something.
Not so bad.
Nick
Still in Mildura and surviving.
