I left the liberal arts college I attended near Pittsburgh around noon and headed south with a friend from school. I was giving him a ride to San Marcos, Texas and then heading over to Houston where I would work at a driving range for the summer. My first job in the golf industry.
We ate dinner somewhere, I can’t remember where, and pressed on. We stopped a little after 2 a.m. in Joplin, MO. I remember sitting in the Waffle House, downing coffee and eggs, wondering how we were going to make it 10 more hours to San Marcos. I could barely focus, and I wasn’t behind the wheel, just sitting at the counter. It didn’t help that I couldn’t stop giggling.
Somewhere in Oklahoma (or North Texas), I got out of my car and hit a driver down the desolate, straight-as-an-arrow highway that was our route at the time. Just for fun. It was 6 a.m.
Sometime around noon, we made it to San Marcos. I stayed a minute or two and headed toward Houston. I didn’t bother going by the house I was staying for the summer, I just went straight to the driving range. I hadn’t slept in 30 hours when I arrived.
Somehow it seemed to make sense to have me start working immediately. To whom, I have no idea. But there I was out there driving the range cart picking up balls. I had never done it in my life.
I ran over a stump (mistake) and then tried to back up (colossal mistake) to free myself from it. I bent the frame of the picker and got myself stuck. There I was, 100 yards from the shop, with people hitting balls at me, with my new boss (whom I had never met until 40 minutes ago) staring at me from the tee, and with the clothes I had worn since yesterday on, stuck.
It took us about 30 minutes to get me unstuck, while the range was closed to customers. I was making an impact on business already. It would cost about $50 to fix the picker. A few more days of me and they would be out of business.
Twenty years later…I’m about to start a new line of work. I’ll keep some cash handy.
