RIGHT CLUB – WRONG BALL!

Roy Grimble shook his head in resignation when Ray Denvine’s drive galloped along the ground and disappeared into the light rough ninety yards from the tee.
“How often do I have to tell you, Ray,” he said patiently as they walked after it, “to keep your head down?”
“I’m sorry, Roy, but I can’t stop myself looking for the ball.”
“There’s absolutely no point in doing that, Ray. You can’t see more than ten yards. If it wasn’t for me and your other regular partners, you’d lose every ball in your bag before you reached the first green.”
“You’re right, Roy. I’ll try not to do it again.”
“While we’re talking about your eyesight – when was the last time you saw an optician?”
“What?”
“It’s not only your eyes that need checking Ray, your ears aren’t too good either. I said, when was the last time you saw an optician?”
“When was the last time I saw an optician? Goodness gracious me! Let me think. It’s got to be over thirty years.”
“You’re joking.”
“No! I remember now. I was in my fifties at the time.”
“Dear oh dear. You’re well overdue for an eye test. This game’s difficult enough for people who have eyes like a hawk, my old son. I’d make an appointment if I was you.”
This suggestion horrified Ray and his response revealed the notoriously parsimonious streak in his character.
“No chance!” he snorted indignantly. “Have you any idea how much those unscrupulous bandits charge?”
“For goodness’ sake, Ray. They won’t charge you anything. You’re eighty-six. The test is free.”
“I know that, but they’ll only tell me I need new lenses and I refuse to shell out hundreds of pounds on totally unnecessary things like that.” He stabbed a calloused finger towards his eyes. “I can make do with the ones I’ve got.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m positive! Now where’s the green and how far is it?”
Roy pointed to the distant flag.
“It’s way over there. You’re lucky your ball’s sitting up nicely. I’d try a smooth four iron.”
Denvine stuck his thumb up in mute thanks, selected the club, and settled into his crude address position.
“Hang on, Ray. Before you take that shot there’s something I think I should tell you.”
The octogenarian bristled with indignation. “Give me a break, Roy!” he snapped. “Couldn’t it wait? I was about to pull the trigger for crying out loud.”
“I’m sorry, mate – but what do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you mean – what am I doing? Before you wrecked my concentration, you thoughtless idiot, I was going to hit this golf ball - that’s what I was doing. It’s not like you to play mind games, Roy. I know you’re one down at the moment, so what you’ve got to say had better be important.”
Grimble shook his head sadly. “Of course I’m not playing mind games, Ray. You know me better than that. But I’ll tell you how important it is. Even if you flush that shot, the odds against you finding the green are absolutely mind-boggling.”
The 28-handicapper turned his club over and peered myopically at the flange.
“What the hell are you on about, Roy? It was you who suggested a four iron and that’s what I’ve got.”
“I know I did, my old son. You’ve got the right club all right, but your ball’s over there, six feet to the right. That round white thing you’re addressing is a toadstool!”