Villainy on the 13th fairway!
Every golf course in America has one.
Doesn’t matter if it’s a pristine private club where the locker room smells like cedar and quiet disappointment…
or a municipal course where the cart paths are mostly gravel and the ball washer hasn’t worked since Nickelback was cool. (I don’t like Nickelback – YOU like Nickelback!)
There is always The Marshal.
The Marshal exists for one reason:
To enforce the ancient and sacred concept known as Pace of Play.
Now before anyone gets their pleated khakis in a twist, let me say something clearly.
Snowman Golfers are not slow golfers.
In fact we operate under a very simple philosophy:
We suck. But we suck fast.
If nobody is in front of us, we will finish a round in under four hours.
Easy.
Because we’re not out here doing 57 waggles like Brian Harman before every shot.
We are not reading putts like we’re decoding the Zodiac Killer’s notebook.
You ever see those guys that walk back and forth across the green staring at a six-foot putt like it contains the meaning of life?
Then they squat down.
Then they stand up.
Then they squat again.
Then they use their putter like a pendulum… back and forth… back and forth…
Like they’re trying to hypnotize the ball.
I have no idea what that does.
But I do know this:
The ball still misses.
Meanwhile the Snowman Golfer system is highly efficient.
Step one:
Hit the ball.
Step two:
Find the ball in the bushes.
Step three:
Hit it again.
Sometimes eight times.
But we do it quickly.
Which is why the Marshal situation is so confusing.
Because somehow… some way… the Marshal always finds us.
And he doesn’t roll up normally either.
Oh no.
Marshals appear like golf course magicians.
You can be standing on a wide-open hole.
Flat fairway.
No hills.
No trees.
Just sunshine and a couple Miller Lites sweating in the cupholder.
Then suddenly on 13 –
BAM.
Out of nowhere.
Like Harry Houdini with authority issues.
(Respect my Authority!)
“Gentlemen, you need to pick up the pace.”
Now this is fascinating information…
Because for the previous five holes we have done nothing but wait.
Wait on the tee.
Wait in the fairway.
Wait on the green.
The group in front of us has been standing on that green since the Obama administration, but somehow we’re the problem.
You look ahead and it’s four carts full of guys dressed like Rodney Dangerfield at a yacht club mixer.
They’ve got rangefinders.
Two GPS units.
One guy has a notebook.
Another guy is lining up a putt like he’s calculating satellite re-entry coordinates.
But apparently we’re the ones holding things up.
And I think I know why.
It’s the orange ball.
I play those matte orange Callaway balls.
And I’m convinced they act like some kind of Marshal Bat Signal.
Somewhere in the clubhouse a light starts flashing.
“ATTENTION: GOLFERS HAVING FUN DETECTED.”
And suddenly the Marshal appears.
Because the Marshal doesn’t go hassle the foursome ahead of us.
No.
Those guys look like members.
They look like people who might write an email.
Marshals fear emails. Especially from Gary!
But a couple Snowman Golfers with orange balls and a cooler?
Oh we’re safe targets.
He pulls up like a middle school hall monitor.
“You guys need to keep pace.”
Listen here Thaddeus.
We have been waiting on every single shot since hole four.
The only way we could play faster is if we start teeing off directly into the group of slowness in front of us, which would lead to one of those YouTube golf fights where the old guys start yelling, someone falls down, and somebody’s pants inevitably come off.
And nobody wants that.
But here’s the thing.
Despite all this…
Despite Thaddeus the Marshal lurking around the course like a retired mall cop with a golf cart…
We are still going to have a great day.
Because that’s what Snowman Golfers do.
We’re going to drink a couple Hooligan Specials.
We’re going to hit a few drives into the trees.
We’re going to card a 102 with pride.
And yes…
There will absolutely be a couple Snowmen on that scorecard.
Because that’s the game.
And no Marshal in America is going to ruin a perfectly good afternoon of sunshine, bad swings, and questionable decision making.
So if you see a couple guys out there laughing…
Playing quickly…
Orange ball bouncing down the fairway…
Just remember something.
We’re not slow.
We’re not holding anyone up.
We’re just Snowman Golfers.
And we may shoot an eight…
But we’ll do it faster than the guy reading a four-foot putt like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls.
And really –
Calm down, Thaddeus.
It’s only a game, bro.
And life…
Is still great with an 8.