As a newly certified Fire / EMS Dispatcher, (July 2010), I jumped at opportunities for team bonding. It's important to fit in. Not really. But for this blog -- it works better if I say it's important.
Some of the other people I worked with planned a golf outing for one day after work. They asked if I wanted to come along. I explained, honestly, that I'd never golfed before. Didn't own clubs. And wasn't sure I'd even know how to swing a club. But if that didn't bother any of them, it didn't bother me.
I was assured my skills (lack there of) were not too far behind some of the others who planned on going, too.
We got out of work around 0800. In the parking lot we strategized -- who was going to golf with who (or whom ... whatever). Then charged one guy with hitting McDonald's Drive-thru for some Mc-sandwich-this-es and Mc-sandwich-thats.
And away we went.
After eating a Mc-sandwich-this, and also a Mc-sandwich-that, and downing a quick cup of coffee in the golf club parking lot ... we all marched up to the club house and retrieved motorized carts and scheduled tee times.
I was going to change names, protect the innocent and all of that. Then decided against it. So, there was me, Finn, Dave and Matt. Two carts, two to a cart.
We planned to play nine holes. Hoped to finish in a few hours. As we Tee'd off I realized, if we finished nine holes before dusk we'd be lucky.
Each swung I took produced one of three results: the ball rolled a good foot or two; swung and missed; or swung and slapped the ball deep into the woods, sand, or lost it in the various ponds ... (My first question, why build a golf course with so many variables? Ponds? Really? And all those trees! Forget the beautifully kept lawn -- who is doing anything about all the sand? Can't find good groundskeepers anymore, I suppose--but if it were my course, you can bet I'd have that sand filled in, and the ponds siphoned, and the trees removed! Some of the trees are so tall and clustered, you can't see the hole from where you tee off!)
By the sixth hole, we'd basically turned golf into motorized polo. Slowing the carts down enough to whack the ball closer to the green for a more acceptable, shootable shot position. Finn was out of his cart, lining up a shot. Matt and I sat parked about twenty, maybe thirty yards away -- waiting to move on to the next hole.
Dave was in the passenger seat of Finn's cart. The cart suddenly lunged forward. I think Dave drove from the wrong side. From the wrong side, and he was looking down. Like, at his feet.
Not up. Like at Finn, who Dave was about to run over.
And did hit, and run over. . .
Finn came up and fell through the front area of the cart. Hit the ground, and the rear golf cart tires rolled over him.
Tha-thump, da-thump!
Before really understanding anything--like, Did Dave Really Just Run Over Finn?
Dave was thrown from the cart. He fell hard, and rolled.
The cart, unmanned, continued off the green, into weeds.
Matt looked at me. "We should see what happened!"
It wasn't that I didn't want to help. But all I could think (and actually said out loud) was, "Looks like they're getting attacked by bees."
Which was my way of saying, lets stay here and maybe we can yell to ask them how they're doing.
I didn't much care for bees. They ruined summer. No way to eat outside at a picnic -- not when you have to run around swatting at bees and dropping your potato salad and hotdog off some flimsy paper-ware...
But Matt said, "We're going seventy-seven."
(77 = Lights and sirens). The golf cart had no lights. No sirens either. But he said it, just the same.
We did a bouncing U-turn, sped across the green -- at like five, maybe six miles an hour.
Four seconds later we stopped alongside Dave, who was still on the ground. On his belly. Smiling. Laughing. But still down.
The groundskeeper -- whom I referred affectionately to as Lawnmower Man -- came over on his riding mower (which moved a hundred times faster than the issued golf carts) and proceeded to yell at us.
"You're either here to play golf or screw around." His sprinkler-like arm started pointing at one of us and panned across the field to encompass us all. "They're doing bat turns," he added, pointing directly at Matt and myself. (I took steps to distance myself from Matt)
Finn stood up, spread out his arms in a way that clearly said, Give us a break. "Like I meant to get run over by a golf cart!"
"Stop screwing around," Lawnmower Man announced, and drove away. Fast. (Fast, for a riding lawnmower, mind you).
At 9-1-1, we E.M.D. calls (Emergency Medical Dispatch). It's "universal" codes that alert first responders to what type of job they're headed into. This -- the golf cart accident -- I'd have to code a 29D2M, Pedestrian Struck. Or, I might also code it a 29D2N, Person Ejected ... Tough call. I think either works. Might have to put in two separate jobs.
Anyway, where was I?
Ah, yes. We went to the next hole.
Dave placed his ball on the tee and swung. Beautiful hit. Ball sailed. But Dave nearly collapsed. Wincing. Gripped his side.
Long story short (shorter)?
Dave had fractured ribs.
Finn wore tire track stains on his pants that -- to this day -- refuse to wash out.
And our supervisors have forbidden more than four fire dispatchers from ever going golfing together again. Ever.
Our next outing, thought we'd do something far more conservative and less reckless than golfing.
Someone sent for a brochure on white water rafting ... I'll be sure to let you know how that turns out.
Until next time!!!!
--Phillip Tomasso III
Fire / EMS Dispatcher