El Whooshka!

Old H.N.Hatchett was sitting at the bar, slowly sipping on his schooner of Old. The rest of the clubhouse was empty, it being a normal, slow Monday morning. There were a few punters out on the golf course, but inside it was only HN, and myself behind the bar.

'You better get me another one of these Jimmy,' he said, as he polished off his beer. 'And when you're done I'll tell you a little story about my halcyon days.'
Oh great, I thought, another one of HN's stories, I didn't realise he had had that many beers yet. I poured his beer with a certain amount of foreboding, not because his stories were bad, in fact just the opposite - his stories usually had me engrossed so much that I would lose track of time and the morning would escape me, and on that particular morning I had a few large orders to sort out.

As I handed old Hatchett his beer I contemplated telling him that the story might have to wait, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I knew that if I stopped him from telling me then I would probably never hear it. Instead, I grabbed myself a stool and got comfortable behind the bar.

'El Whooshka!' he suddenly yelled out and I fell off my stool. I sheepishly got back on my stool as old HN quietly cackled. 'Same thing happened to me,' he said, 'except I was halfway through my downswing.'
'Go on,' I said, perplexed.

'That was one crazy summer,' he said, looking off beyond me. 'It was the start of the decent money in professional golf, and greed turned some previously perfect gentlemen into unrelenting, ruthless competitors, who believed etiquette could be overlooked in favour of winning at all costs.
'One such bloke was this little Mexican by the name of Pablo El Whooshka! with an exclamation mark. Only a little fella, stood about three foot two in the old scale. And the funny thing was he played with these elongated clubs. They were about a foot longer than your standard length club. He made one hell of a sight, but I'll tell you when it came to hitting a golf ball he lived up to his name - El Whooshka! - alright. He hit the ball a country mile, longer than everyone on the tour, with the exception of myself, of course.

'In those days it was all matchplay of course, and none of these fancy schmancy rules like free drops or marking your ball. No sir, if your ball finished up a tree you had to climb up there and hit it out, if you hit it into the water you went in after it. That was real golf! And the courses! Well, nothing like these user friendly things we see today, no siree - the fairways were only four yards wide and if you missed them then you were in rough up over your head...'
'HN,' I broke in, having heard all of this before, I just had to stop him before he got onto equipment or the morning would surely be gone. 'What about this little Mexican?'
'Oh, of course, El Whooshka! Well it was the semi final of the European Cup, and I was up head to head against the little Mexican. Although in all reality he only came up to my knee so you could say it was head to knee...'
'HN!'
'Oh sorry...

'Anyway it was the first time I had come up against the little fella, in fact it was the first time I had seen him play at all, and when he stepped up on that first tee and teed up his ball on one side and then he stood way over on the other side of the tee and swung the flattest swing I have ever seen (his clubhead hit the ground at the top of his swing) and he absolutely walloped his drive I was flabbergasted.'
'I'll bet you were,' I said.
'How much you wanna bet?' asked HN, who had a gambling problem.
'Nothing,' I said, 'now tell me more about this Mexican.'

'Well, he pumped his drive sraight down the middle of the first fairway, which was a longish, straightaway par four. Most of the blokes were hitting Cleek then Mashie, but El Whooshka! only needed a Wally to get home...'
'What's a Wally?' I asked, confused.
'A cross between a modern day sand wedge and a three iron.'
'Oh,' I said, peering at my watch and deciding not to pursue it any further.

'Anyway, being the longest hitter on tour I pulled out a Mashie on the tee, and because I found the featheries to be a little too hard for my stand and deliver golf swing, I decided to use a ping pong ball, as that was perfectly legal in those days. We were hitting into a howling gale so I decided to grip down the club and swing easy, as I didn't want to end up in the water hazard over the back of the green.

'Halfway through my little chip downswing El Whooshka! yells out, "El Whooshka!" I, of course, jerk my hands through in a panic and I hit the ball way too hard. Anyway the ball travels miles off into the distance, over the horizon, never to be seen again. Or so we thought! Five minutes later a ping pong ball comes flying over our heads onto the green and into the hole! When we checked the number it was mine, it had circumnavigated th globe and gone into the hole for an unlikely hole in one!'
'HN!'
'Well you should of seen the look on his face!'
'HN!'
'He never yelled that out again on my backswing. Ho! I ended up beating him seventeen up with sixteen to play...'
'HN!'
'Yes Jimmy?'
'It's ten forty five and you're off tap. Congratulations - a new world record!'
'Thanks Jimmy.'



The End...