(Featuring Hyper-Aggressive Gym Shorts Guy)
My buddy and I sneak out of work early one afternoon and head over to Disney. Florida resident rate. Late spring. Something like a 3:30 tee time. Plenty of daylight. Plenty of time to get a full 18 in without feeling rushed.
Golf courses operate on the sacred principle that every tee time must be filled with exactly four people, because God forbid anyone just enjoy a quiet round with their friends. That’s how you end up paired with strangers, which is basically a lottery you never asked to enter.
But on this day, we check in and the starter basically waves us out early. Our tee time is still about fifteen minutes away, but there’s nobody there.
It’s just the two of us.
Immediate win.
We roll up to the first tee and look down the fairway. There’s a group already out there, and they are absolutely not playing ready golf. At least two of them look to be about 175 years old, judging by the four golf carts and the full Rodney Dangerfield wardrobe. But whatever, it’s Disney Magnolia Course, I’m just here for some sunshine, a few swings, and a couple of Miller Lites.
We’re feeling good about the situation. We’ve got space. We’ve got time. This might actually be one of those rare, peaceful rounds.
Then, about two minutes later, it happens.
Gym Shorts Guy shows up.
He’s a single. Pulls up in a cart like he’s late for something important. TJ Maxx golf shirt. Old gym shorts with a yellow stripe down the side. Knee brace. A hat that’s seen some shit. This guy looks like he spends every waking hour outside and smokes fifteen Winstons before 10 a.m. His face has the texture of a catcher’s mitt.
And of course, he’s got a Bluetooth speaker. Loud. Right out of the gate.
My buddy and I exchange the look.
You know the one.
The “oh no” look.
Gym Shorts Guy is amped. Like aggressively excited to be there. Talking nonstop. Music blasting. Ready to roll.
First tee, he’s grip-it-and-rip-it guy. Swinging like ball speed is the only thing that matters. Like he’s trying to get the ball to Mach 1. We’re playing from the whites. At Disney. With slow groups in front of us. And this guy is swinging like he’s auditioning for the Masters.
As the round goes on, he gets chummier. Tells us he plays out there all the time. Every day. Same routine. And it starts to feel less like small talk and more like he’s laying the groundwork for a “we should golf together more” situation.
Which is not happening.
Update for clarity: my buddy and I are IT guys who play golf maybe five times a year. We are not in the market for new golf friends.
Meanwhile, the course stacks up. Shocking. And Gym Shorts Guy starts getting visibly annoyed. Heavy sighs. Eye rolls. Muttering under his breath. Like Disney golf is supposed to be some pace-of-play utopia.
By the back nine, it clicks.
This guy has full Frank the Tank from Old School energy, with a little John Daly mixed in.
By the time we get to the 12th hole, he’s had enough.
He decides he’s going around everyone. Four groups ahead of us. And before he takes off, he tries to recruit us. “C’mon, guys. Let’s go. Let’s play through.”
My buddy and I don’t even need to talk about it. Nope.
We tell him we’re good. We’re not in a rush. We’re enjoying the round.
He does not like that answer.
He speeds off, speaker blasting, disappearing up the fairway in a cloud of frustration and bad decisions.
And we never see him again.
The rest of the round is peaceful. Quiet. Exactly what Disney golf is supposed to be. And honestly, we enjoy it way more without Hyper-Aggressive Gym Shorts Guy trying to bomb 400-yard drives while shooting a 95 and acting like the world owes him faster golf.
That’s the lesson.
Getting paired up is always a gamble.
Sometimes you get lucky.
Sometimes you get Gym Shorts Guy.
And sometimes the best possible outcome is when the problem solves itself and drives away like he’s trying to win Talladega in an electric golf cart.