Four of us had arrived early one day to play a course that I won’t name. No one in our foursome was a lawyer, so nobody could give a real good answer about the legal ramifications of hitting a building that they just stuck right out there, no more than a nine-iron shot from bad golfers.

So I’m standing just off the 18th fairway while my golf ball is rolling on the clubhouse roof above a patio where people are eating lunch and watching guys hit things toward them that could hurt if they slice past a side dish.

But I’m about 18 holes ahead of myself.

Four of us had arrived early one day to play a course that I won’t name. No one in our foursome was a lawyer, so nobody could give a real good answer about the legal ramifications of hitting a building that they just stuck right out there, no more than a nine-iron shot from bad golfers.

I know it’s no more than a nine-iron shot because I hit an eight-iron. It was too much. It must be difficult to concentrate on eating a burger when you know there are guys out there learning things like that.

Classy course

This was a beautiful course that includes such scenic landscaping elements as rolling hills, glistening water, stately trees, swaying tall natural areas, long expanses of green grass with contrasting sand traps designed to inspire awe and test your religious beliefs.

I played well on some holes but poorly enough on many others that I was able to keep my per-shot costs reasonably low. I lost some balls, but they were old balls, and I’d already mentally depreciated them out of my bag.

I had hit no one for 17 holes, so I approached the 18th tee with the confidence of a man who is pretty sure nobody is waiting for him at the clubhouse with a civil suit.

Water stretched out along the left side of the fairway, which bent around the pond to the green. I snuck up on the fish by driving a shot to the right before I hooked it back into water. I think I heard a bass go, “Huh?”

Now I’m standing a club’s length away from the water hazard, looking at the green and understanding exactly what an online reviewer of the course meant when he said that the final hole had a “tournament” feel because there was a gallery.

Thinking like a professional golfer, I decided to draw an eight-iron around the water, landing it in front of the green and rolling the ball up close to the pin. My hands, performing like a guy who types for a living, left the ball right where it hit the cart path and bounced onto the roof.

It rolled around up there for a bit while I made cringing faces before it finally dropped into a flowerbed. The gallery gasped. My playing partners giggled. I think I turned around and said something insightful, such as “I didn’t mean to hit it there.”

The aftermath

After quickly realizing that I had neither the time nor the spare garments to change my shirt and hat to prevent people from recognizing me, I rode up sheepishly to a place on the cart path in front of the clubhouse.

I glanced briefly at the people on the patio, who had returned to eating because they still had teeth. I nodded an apology to one table of diners who must eat there often because they didn’t appear to be thinking that I’d done anything out of the ordinary.

The ball still is in the flowerbed — if anybody wants it. I didn’t look for it because I figured that the only thing worse than rattling a ball around on the shingles is messing up the mulch.

I dropped a ball near the green, where I didn’t think I had enough space to do any additional damage. I chipped it on, then two-putted, for those who are keeping score. Then I stopped. After all that, I still want to go back and play the course again.

I figure I can hole it out in fewer strokes the next time, even if I have to go through an eaves trough drainpipe.