The Sunsday of Triple Bogey

by Cardboard Box

Rating: everyone
Tags: Original Character, Comedy, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 3547

In which a stallion – not his real name, by the way – steps once more unto a date with Destiny, or so he believes. Meet the worst golfer at Sweetwater Country Club.

All civilised cultures and species develop their games and sports. Equestrians are no exception.

At the Sweetwater Country Club, a stallion of great ambition is about to attempt his goal once more.

Fillies and gentlecolts, allow me to introduce Triple Bogey, informally honoured at Sweetwater Country Club as their Worst Golfer of the Year. Six years running.

Published 2015-02-01 06:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2015-02-01 06:40:01 UTC

Journey to the Twenty-Third Hole

Reader, a house. A house in the more modest part of Sweetwater, we admit, but Destiny hoofs her nose at context, and as far as one inhabitant of this dwelling is concerned, she awaits this day.

Through the wall, then, for such is the power of Authors, and behold! A mare, asleep, and her stallion, not asleep, staring through the wall to, we assume from his expression, a much anticipated victory. This is he – he of the aubergine mane, chartreuse coat, and one of those cutie marks one forgets from sheer ubiquitousness – O Reader, behold the expectant, optimistic visage of Triple Bogey!

Of course, that is not his name, but for this day, who cares? Indeed, given the nickname that has been brought to light, let us keep his true identity, like that of Mare-Do-Well, a secret. It matters not anyway. In any case, Princess Celestia is at work, lifting the sun into the sky for a very nice Sunsday indeed. Our dear subject Triple Bogey could recite the weather plan from heart: Fine, with high cloud diffusing some of the light and heat, light northerly breeze turning north-west in the afternoon, at sixteen-o-clock. For Triple Bogey, this is important, for it will affect the disposition of his limbs – limbs which normally vanish into the mystery and darkness that lies behind the shop counter.

In any case, those limbs have taken him to the kitchen, where he and his dear mare are consuming breakfast. He is hoeing in without tasting his food, his mind already on the heavily manicured fields where Destiny awaits. His wife is eating slower, partly due to taking a Hay Day due to worries about her weight, fuelled by peer pressure from her herd of friends as well as those ghastly shriek-squeal rags publishers will foist on the fairer sex. I mean, have you ever noticed how every week another fad diet? One would almost think a conspiracy was afoot to bilk all marehood out of bits and health –

– I do beg pardon. Quite got carried away.

In any case, she is also munching in resignation, since she knows full well that Triple Bogey won't be home all day, once he's got his saddlebags (which the night before were packed, unpacked, the contents examined intently, packed again, unpacked again for yet another quite unnecessary inspection, before she finally put her hoof down and ordered him to cease and desist since dinner was getting cold) on his back and the door behind him. For five and a half days of the week, he is the most attentive, kind, and dutiful stallion a mare could wish for. And then along comes Saddleday afternoon! The change begins slowly, as he begins to turn distant, and starts prattling about the morrow, and how he'll definitely do it this time, and in mind-numbing detail too.

Ah! Poor mare! Your husband's mind is already away, and we can tell you where it is too. Because fast is broken, a perfunctory kiss administered, and Triple Bogey's body is regrouping with his mind, and see where:

Sweetwater Country Club!

Behold the grounds! Those artfully arranged and sculpted patterns of sand, sward, water and plants! See the grand clubhouse -- funded mostly, I need not tell you, by Sweetwater Brewery in general and its owner Barley Hops in particular, as is just about everything else of note and importance in town -- a resplendent pile bestrewn with faux-Canterlot columns, excessively ornate windows, and other pretentious architectural tat. It basically declares that all those who associate here are moneyed, and Respectable, or what some might call Toffee-nosed. It would be an ideal sort of place for somepony like, say, Filthy Rich to grace with his presence, if it were to be razed to the ground and rebuilt with rather more modesty than, to be frank, its founder and benefactor, Mr Barley Hops, of course, is capable of.

But there is our quarry, bustling through the front door and signing in. Aubergine on chartreuse arranging something with a colt behind a counter, coat mostly hidden beneath a uniform blanket and pimples. And now he hies him to the Members' Lounge, settles on a couch and keeps vigil. Soon it will be time.

Our hero has eyes for naught but the clock; let us look around. The room is luxurious, the large windows revealing the same demonstration of the landscapers' art, and ponies moving, singly or in small herds, hither and yon, occasionally kicking at something we cannot see here. A fireplace, unlit, nevertheless has the attendance of the Oldest Member, who is asleep, or feigning it. Triple Bogey has a lamentable habit –

"Oh hello there!" A youthful voice, a young stallion, evidently new to the club, and nervous. Oh gentle yearling, turn your path! Do not approach that stallion, that Talker-Off of Ears –

"Ah! Hello? New? Don't worry, we don't bite here, ha ha," oh woe unto the ignorance of youth! "Just waiting on my tee time, then my first hole in one! I'm dead certain that last week I would have got one on the twelfth, if it wasn't for the breeze, they had it blowing southerly you know, maybe I should've crossed a hoof or two eh? But unsporting, ha ha. Anyway, I was thinking of getting a pair of..."

Alas. The Oldest Member's features, even with eyes shut tight, tighten with annoyance. For Triple Bogey is notorious for being what is known as a 'blower'. Why, even the Oldest Member has been heard to say, not within our subject's hearing of course:

"If he put as much effort into his play as he does into blowing himself up, why! He might get that hole in one."

The minutes tick on, and while it would be in the line of duty, good Reader, to transcribe the rambling, vaguely coherent monologue as Triple Bogey blew himself up, I, your humble Author, am stricken with concern for your health, both physical and mental. For I am sure some of you attend to the same pastime as our dear, foolish subject, and some of the statements are of such inaccuracy, and some jokes so bereft of taste or indeed humorous content, that I fear being held responsible for a plague of brain fevers.

Indeed, his poor victim, watch! The blurted excuse of needing to relieve himself – the near-flight out the door – the locked stall – and the gentle words of another member, who recognises the symptoms.

And bereft of audience, Triple Bogey watches the clock, indifferent to the portraits of great ponies, be they the founders of the club, or merely professionals of the sport, of the fine furnishings and the view onto his fellow sportsponies as they ply the course. Soon will come his tee time.

And soon, at least in his mind, will come his triumph. For Triple Bogey's limbs, normally supporting him in the course of his work, will be applied to a small dimpled orb, and said orb will land eventually in its inevitable destination.

Behold! Triple Bogey, the golfer!

For him, it does not matter how the game was invented; my favourite legend is that an apple farmer, out of sheer boredom, kicked a rotten apple away, sending it down a local rabbit hole, but as makes no never mind. The ball is now white, and festooned with dimples, and notably smaller than any apple known to ponykind.

For golf, at its heart, is simple: One addresses hind hooves to ball, launching it towards the hole, in as few kicks as possible. However, over time, as anypony can attest at exploring a sporting goods shop, the equipment now adds more complexity to the business! One needs special foreshoes for grip, and hindshoes with ever more elaborate soles (and these days, with pop rivets to swap said soles for different situations!) to apply more control to the ball; and as to the plethora of different brands, all promising nonsensical levels of control, oh! it can drive a pony demented.

Now factor in the various golfing clubs vying with each other with ever more cunning and challenging courses. It's like some sort of mad race: here come the equippers with their latest lot of gear; immediately the groundskeepers and landscapers twist and mould the earth and vegetation to thwart them; and in the middle the poor duffer who just wants to relax and maybe get within half a dozen kicks of par.

However, wait – the clock! Triple Bogey is up from his seat – 'tis almost his time! Just look as he hurries for the lockers, ignorant of the Oldest Member's reproving regard, and now he dons his garb.

Oh! Rarity! Avert your eyes, O Generosity Incarnate, for onto his hooves go shoes of bright red – onto his back, a sport blanket of purple with baby blue spots – and upon his head, O! to have eyes blessed with rods, and no cones! A golfing cap of argyle pattern. For our would-be hole-in-one-achiever is a strong believer in Lucky Charms, and in his visits to the sporting goods emporium, these mismatched items stood out to him and declared that, if worn, they would certainly bring about his desired success.

And now he is out and away to the first hole, or more precisely the first tee point. Watch as he gently lips a tee from the bag around his neck, pushing it up to the flange into the manicured turf; now a ball is applied, elevated at the right height for his success, about a hoof-and-half above the sward. He is not yet finished with his preparations. As well as lucky garb, he has a lucky ritual. He raises his head and sniffs the air; he licks his snout to test the wind; he does a little jig like the professional does (but he doesn't quite understand what for); and now he backs onto the ball, looking over one shoulder to check his aim... ...and then repeats these rituals again, and a third time, and even a fourth! By now there are other golfers arriving for their tee-offs, and getting a little irritable, and even Triple Bogey notices, and nervousness appears on his face.

Candor compels us to observe that if he simply screwed his courage to the sticking place, and addressed the ball directly, none of this would have happened. But such confidence and forthrightness is what distinguishes professionals from amateurs, and Triple Bogey (which, at this point, we should reiterate is merely a nickname, not his true one) is most definitely an amateur.

So: Now he gulps, backs to the tee again, and with one last glance at the ball, lashes his hind legs out –

Alas! Poor golfer! Nerves, thanks to all those pressuring eyes, and he has hooked it, or is it sliced? I am no golfer, and all I can say is that the ball has not gone where he intended (not that it would have in any case), but off to the side – about sixteen strides out, it bounces off the fairway – then again – right on the most inclined part – and downhill the ball rolls, and into the rough, with three sand traps and a bend between it and the green, where the hole awaits beneath its flag. Three hundred strides to go as the crow flies.

"Meant to do that of course," Triple Bogey blusters, plucking up the tee, "Good spot for my next shot – get it in two, I'll be bound!" But his laugh rings more of embarrassment than confidence. Certainly that is not a confident aubergine tail leaving to close on his ball.

More candor is in order, since now that our dear subject is no longer under pressure, on this hole at least, to send ball to hole in one strike, he actually plays a little bit better. From the rough, the ball ascends high and back onto the fairway; then the third kick, which again is off-course (as far as our dear Triple Bogey is concerned) and almost finds a sand trap, before rolling to a stop just a few hooves off the green. All it would take is one well-aimed chip shot, and Triple Bogey would make par! (For, one method by which the fiendish course designers torment the player, is to decree that one should make the full tour of the grounds in a set maximum of kicks; many a player has done dreadful things to their health and sanity trying to achieve on weekends what the professional sportsponies spend their entire lives practicing for. By example, the first hole on the Sweetwater Country Club course is marked as a Par 4, i.e. that any golfer worth his or her salt would easily put ball in hole with four kicks, tops.)

But to our decidedly non-professional. Here he frowns, popping his rivets and swapping out his soles for a set that are supposed to be ideal for situations like this. Naturally, no sensible pony would wear such things, but Triple Bogey is not such a one. Or, at least, his wife tells her friends.

So: Here he is, right on the verge of achieving par, looking over both shoulders, he takes a breath, his flanks tense for unleashing –

"Foooore!"

– A startled squawk, a lofted divot the size of a dinner plate, and a golf ball that only just lands on the green before not so much rolling as staggering drunkenly another five or six hooves towards the hole.

Then another ball whistles through the air next to our poor startled Triple Bogey, bouncing once, twice, then rolling to within a stride of the hole, whence a flag waves indifferently. Now our hero, riled – thwarted! – glares at the culprit, who has already popped off his soles and is ambling over the crest of the slope towards him.

"That ball of yours nearly hit me," declares our pony, with some heat, less from the near-miss than the fouled shot.

"I called fore," responds his nemesis, a unicorn of toffee and latte colouring, "you should've been listening."

"I was about to kick," rebuts Triple Bogey, "And then you broke my concentration."

"How was I to know?" snaps toffee latte, "It's not as if I could see you, only the flag."

And that, aside from some grumbling, was that. The green was a place of torment for our Triple Bogey, and indeed it is a wonder he only needed two kicks over par (or, as they say in golfing slang, a double bogey) to finally get the ball in.

"Ponies these days," we hear Triple Bogey mutter as he heads for the second hole, "no manners! Don't check over the hills, just yell fore and kick away! At least I'll be the one coming up behind 'em on this one. Not that I'll need it, at least they won't be putting me off getting it right." And his head rises and that look of determination creeps over his face. "Right over their heads," says he, "and into the hole! That'll show 'em."

Oh! Belief! Powerful stuff for the mind and the heart. The world would be better with less of it, or at least more Pragmatism, to cut it with, for too much Belief, neat, can drive a pony mad.

Certainly Triple Bogey drove that toffee and latte unicorn and his fellow golfers mad. There was that awful mixup with balls on the fourth, for one thing. Then, when ensnared by the well-known and quite vindictive sand trap on the seventh (the designer of the course must have been feeling unnaturally sadistic that day), they'd swear that two-thirds of it were expelled by Triple Bogey, mostly in their direction. Then, on the fourteenth, there was a direct hit on the flank of one of the unicorn's female associates. Harsh words were exchanged, and for the next six holes, a rather strained etiquette was born, where none of the toffee latte's group would address their balls until Triple Bogey had his.

Needless to say this declaration of distrust shook Triple Bogey terribly, and par slid further and further away on his score card, with all those eyes watching him warily. Indeed, his game became more and more erratic, and by the time the final hole was reached, that score card told a sad tale: one hundred and seventy-two kicks in total, nearly ten per hole, on average, although in truth his game grew worse with every hole. He hooked and sliced, and sent up great divots of turf with more velocity than his ball; he unerringly found the worst lies, the softest parts of sand traps, and balls went into hiding in underbrush and had to be flushed out.

Nonetheless, his game came to an end, as he plucked the ball out of the twenty-second (it was his fourteenth kick on that hole I believe). Traditionally, the clubhouse is referred to as 'the twenty-third hole', and despite not having a par associated with it, anypony would notice that a golfer attempting it is generally not seen for an hour at least, sometimes an entire afternoon.

Within, we see, among the small throng, that self-same toffee-and-latte unicorn and his friends, drinking the local beverages with occasional licks of salt, and shooting glances almost as condemnatory as those of the Oldest Member, when they hear Triple Bogey's voice above the hubbub.

"– Damn shame about the breeze, I think it was, not much but just enough! Blew the ball off course. Seemed all right on the ground, but you know how winds can change as you get into pegasus territory eh? Must have been that. Would have landed right by the tenth as well.

And further: "– Don't know what the juice she was doing there. They saw where my ball lay, any foal could have worked out the line from there to the hole! And she goes and stands right upon it. Then they went and acted as though I'd done it on purpose! Some ponies have no sense."

"Did you call fore?" asks a sententious yearling from beneath his sire's golf cap.

"Call fore? Of course I called fore! At least I am sure I did. I always have before. It's a certainty. I did call fore. Someponies don't listen."

To judge from the expressions on the subjects of that declaration, they consider him a liar, which, truth be told, he is in this instance. Were he a fisherman, it would be a regular occurrence for him to almost, but never completely, dredge up great myrmidons of the depths on his line, whereupon it would break, or the beast would be ensnared by another's net, or, indeed, any one of a number of calamities that have nothing to do with the grim, unacknowledged truth of the matter. For let us be clear-eyed, as even the elder gaze of the Oldest Member has seen: Triple Bogey has earned that nickname fairly.

O neophyte! Do not place your destiny in the hooves of 'lucky' equipment, for that way lies deceit and disappointment. Nor let your destiny rest solely in the hooves of those fiend groundskeepers and course designers, as all they do is challenge you. And on no account allow your ego rein over your mouth, and blow yourself up greater than you are, for that promises naught but infamy and the public distrust. No! For in golf, as it is in all endeavour, Practice is Magic, regular and unrelenting, with whatever equipment you need, not want; with eyes that see clearly, and not filled with fanciful windmills like Donkey Hoté in the story; and with mouth firmly shut against boastful words –

– I'm sorry, I got carried away again.

But in any case, in truth, our subject, known in Sweetwater Country Club as Triple Bogey, has actually had what passes for him as a good round; his scorecard is noticeably lower than it usually is. And of course, if he were to forget about his ridiculously high hopes and address himself to improving his technique by practice instead of poring over magazine articles, he would get it even lower.

But the day is ending, and Luna will take the skies soon, and refreshed, Triple Bogey we can see heading home. He passes through the gate, and opens the door. "Honey, I'm home! Had a good game. I was just about to hole in one on the first hole when –"

And the door closes on a feminine sigh, and he vanishes from our ken.

Author's Note

Originally this drabble involved Twalicorn introducing her fellow Incarnations of Harmony to the game of golf. But... that's kind of boring.

Triple Bogey originated as a background character whose 'lucky' outfit gave Rarity the vapours. Months after I shelved this, it occurred to me that Triple Bogey was an interesting character in himself: a completely cack golfer, convinced that he'd land a hole-in-one.

I'm not sure where the faux-late-Victorian prose style came from. It's clearly a pastiche of early HG Wells (think The Wheels of Chance: a Bicycling Idyll) and Jerome K Jerome.

And yes, these ponies count in octal.