Not sure what I was doing, Wrent and Histor went back to the tree to look for the ball. The sound was so loud, they thought it hit the tree trunk.
Stot was beside me sending out a line of non-profane exclamations. “Can you walk?” he asked.
I shook my head, gritting my teeth. My ankle just dangled. Hobbling over to a bench, Wrent and Histor questioned, “What happened to you?” turning toward me.
Instantly upon seeing my swollen ankle with nearly a full set of golf ball dimples making their impression upon my flesh, they understood.
“OH MY G–! Did the ball hit your ankle? It sounded like a tree trunk!”
“I know! I thought it hit the tree trunk, too!” added Wrent.
I had so many physical ailments to that point, I scorned more.
Histor and Stot rode off in the golf cart. Wrent stayed next to me. I do not remember the words we exchanged in this moment, I only remember the throbbing pain that started at my ankle and spread far in every direction, down to my toes and up to my knee.
I took slow, deep breaths. Some time later a beverage cart driver appeared, bringing a big bag of ice. She motioned for me to sit in the golf cart. The guys helped me over. I sat down and placed the ice on my ankle, resting it on the cart dash.
Stot got in the driver’s seat. “Nice way to get yourself a cart,” he laughed.
“Can you still play?” asked Histor.
I scowled. “I can try,” I replied stepping out onto the fairway. Giving it a brave attempt, there was just no way.
“Are you seriously going to try?” mocked Stot. He laughed at my effort.
I got back in the cart. “Are you going to the hospital?” asked Wrent.
“Yeah. But I just want to rest a couple minutes with some ice on my ankle,” I answered.
“Great. Well, Histor and I are going to finish, if you don’t mind.”
What is it with men’s loyalty to golf before all else?
“I will take you when you are ready,” Stot affirmed.
I think I was ready. Yet, I remember sitting in the cart for two hours with a bag on my ankle.
To be Continued…