The Golf Book
Jackie Fleming
My two sons usually got along pretty well. But when they were fourteen and seventeen, the older one arrived home from a camping trip one evening, and the younger jumped all over his case for borrowing his sleeping bag without permission. One word led to another, which led to nasty remarks, which then led to even nastier remarks. They were downstairs by the front door and I was upstairs listening to it escalate. It wasn't long before I heard bodies slamming and furniture breaking. I hurried down, grabbing a club from my husband's golf bag, which was often kept at the bottom of the stairs.
My intention was to insert the club between the boys, separating them while I could remind them of the "brothers don't hit brothers in my house" rule. Somehow the club got mixed up in the fray, hit the older son on the chin, and he started to bleed.
"He's bleeding, Mom," the younger cried. "You've hurt him!"
"What were you trying to do?" I retorted. "Kiss him?"
With that, they both left the house, headed in different directions. I leaned dejectedly against the wall, bloody golf club in hand, as my husband came down the stairs to see what all the ruckus had been about. He put his arm around my shoulders and took the club out of my hand.
"You shouldn't have hit the kid with a 9-iron," he said.
"I know, I know," I replied tearfully. "I feel terrible."
As he put the club back into the bag at the base of the stairs, he said, "You should have used a wedge."
(269 words)