On the eighth tee, Danny’s cell phone rang just as Roy was getting ready to hit the ball. Roy hit another bad shot. He glared at Danny. Danny looked at him again. “I’m a doctor, Roy. I’m on call for emergencies. What if your great granddaughter was in a car accident—wouldn’t you be glad I had my ringer on?”
On the ninth tee, Danny told Roy that Roy had added up his score incorrectly. “You got a 6 on the last hole, not a 5,” Danny told Roy in front of the two other golfers in the foursome. Roy recounted out loud all five of his shots, and told Danny to pay attention to his own score. Danny laughed. “Just because you’re old doesn’t necessarily mean you’re honest,” he said.
After their foursome left the ninth green, Roy made sure that he got himself alone with Danny on the far side of the clubhouse. “I’m really tired of your crap,” he told Danny. “Stand up! Get out of that golf cart. I’m going to give you a fat lip to match your smart mouth.” Danny didn’t move. “I said get up!” Roy yelled at him. A couple of nearby golfers turned their heads. Danny looked at Roy. “Well, if that’s how you feel,” he said, and drove off to the tenth tee. He said nothing to Roy on the back nine.
