Ray Allen

OK, OK last story about the golf tournament. But it's a good one.

I am not a golfer. I have only recently begun to learn the etiquette of when to be quiet and when to clap, what plaid goes with which loafer, why you should be 'all eyes' when walking the course when amateurs are playing.

Apparently they are dangerous and golf balls can be lethal. Or at least pretty damaging when they meet your head at 900 miles an hour, falling from the sky like a dimpled asteroid.

The first day we were walking into the tournament, I was my usual oblivious self. Pushing Emmy in the stroller, enjoying beautiful Lake Tahoe and its crystal clear waters. Meanwhile The Good Doctor is ticking off warnings left and right.

"Watch out for flying balls."

"Listen for people yelling, 'Fore!'"

"Pay attention."

"Hey, hey. Eyes open, woman. The course is over here." 

All the usual Rules that rule my life. But this time they were Golf Rules. To save my life.

Day 2 of the tournament: I'm trying my best to pay attention but you know, we're easily distracted by shiny things over here.

So Emmy and I are minding our own beeswax, picking up pinecones, walking around on the lush grass. Suddenly I hear The Good Doctor yell, and I mean YELL. "GET DOWN!" When re-telling the story I use Terminator's Austrian accent.

I immediately grab Emmy and crouch over her. Two seconds later I feel The Good Doctor's arms wrapped around us and I see his sunglasses fly into the grass a couple feet in front of me. Then I see the golf ball land 10 feet in front of us. I'm like, "Phew. That was a close one! I get it now. Golf is dangerous, Good Doctor." I stand up and brush myself off, turning around to see who's going to come and get the ball.

That's when I spot the group of people crowded around some guy who is lying flat on his back, bleeding, with his eyes closed.

The ball had BOUNCED OFF HIS FOREHEAD.

The Good Doctor walks over to see if he can help. I listen for it. Security: "Sir, we need everyone to step away." Him: "Ma'am, I'm a doctor."

Then this other lady is all, "What kind of doctor are you?" And I was thinking, "Baaa-scuse me?"

And he goes, "I'm an anesthesiologist."

And she goes, "I'm an internist."

And the guy on the ground opens his eyes and goes, "Where's the gynecologist?"

That's when we knew he was OK. Nasty bleeding gash. Head wounds are gushers, but he was going to be all right.

Turns out, Ray Allen hit the ball. He wasn't in the mood to take a picture with me and Emmy but we got this one of him handing an autographed program to his victim.

Golf. Full contact sport.