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Daihen!
Daijio bu?
Kiken Na!
Abunai!
They were yelling at me in Japanese. At least I think it was Japanese. I couldn’t swear to it, because I think I probably had a concussion and that may have skewed my perception of things a bit. They gathered around and peered down at me out of concerned eyes, talking quickly and making my already pounding head pound even more.
I was leaning against a shiny, black pick-up truck with a huge dent in the side of it. The golf cart I’d been “driving” only moments before was parked in front of me, looking no worse for wear. Surrounding it were dozens of beer cans, soft drinks, hot dogs, and bags of potato chips. I suppose they’d been scattered everywhere at the moment of impact.
Upon seeing the mess beyond the quartet of concerned Japanese golfers, my first coherent thought was that I would need to restock the cart. Ugh. Stocking the cart was always such a pain.
When stocking, I had to make a million trips from the kitchen to my vehicle; my skinny arms loaded down with twelve packs of Bud Light, MGD, and Heineken, hot dogs and condiments precariously perched atop my load. Everything was destined for its place in the Snack Hut just beyond the curve from the 10th hole. The actual trip to the 10th hole was always a pretty big pain itself, full of steep hills and sharp curves.
The funny thing is that I had barely begun that annoying trip when I had the accident. I had just started down a tiny hill that would take me down the path that led to The Hut. The four Japanese men were loading up their own cart with clubs and equipment.
I nodded and smiled as I passed them by and rolled down the hill. The momentum from my descent made the golf cart pick up speed, so I put my foot to what I thought was the break.
Moments later I found myself crushed between my cart and a brand new pickup truck with a brand new dent.
After taking a couple of minutes to “recover” and reassure my foreign friends, I managed to make it to the club house where I promptly quit out of the embarrassment I was pretty sure I’d die from.
For weeks after, I walked around with a black eye and hurt pride, being reminded by countless friends the difference between a brake pedal and gas pedal. Yeah, yeah. I would say. Lesson learned.
