Getting to Tupelo Golf in Myrtle Beach
Woke up crazy early last Tuesday thinking “man I need golf”. Threw clubs in my trunk before coffee even finished brewing. Drove two hours towards Myrtle Beach with tunes blasting, GPS telling me wrong turns half the time.
The Course Setup Experience
Parking lot looked packed already at 9am. Walked into pro shop smelling like stale coffee and new polo shirts. Guy behind counter grunted “tee time?” like I interrupted his nap. Paid my greens fee while watching retired dudes argue about who stole whose ball marker.
- Took cart to first tee box sweating buckets – South Carolina humidity’s no joke
- Realized I forgot extra balls in car – walked back cussing myself
- Saw group ahead taking selfies for 15 minutes – thought my head would explode
Actual Golfing Disaster Mode
First drive sliced into woods – heard squirrels laughing at me. Second shot landed in bunker full of concrete-hard sand. Third shot flew backwards somehow – old guy behind me yelled “fore… backwards?!”
Spent afternoon fishing balls out of water hazards like some swamp monster. Found 3 branded balls but lost 12 of mine. By hole 7, my scorecard looked like phone number scribbled by toddler.
The Infamous Myrtle Beach Moment
Hole 15 had alligator sunbathing near pond. Stopped my backswing cold when tail twitched. Group behind started heckling “feed it your 7-iron!” Pretended not to hear while sweating through three layers of shirts.
Wrapping Up the Circus
Finished round near sunset looking like drowned rat. Cart girl giggled when I bought six Gatorades at once. Found clubhouse bar packed with red-faced dudes telling lies about birdies. Drank cheap beer while wondering why golf vacations always feel like punishment.
Drive home took four hours because traffic. Next time anyone mentions “relaxing golf getaway” – I’m showing them this damn scorecard.
