Can golf save the world?

He stood over the putt. He looked at the line it ought to follow, then backed away, squatted and lined it up again. He moved to stand over the ball again adjusting his feet, wiggling his hips, relaxing his fingers. A lot was resting on this putt. If he made it he would be a multi billionaire, for at $37,000,000,000 this was the largest purse ever offered in golf anywhere in the universe. If he missed it, well . . . he’d be strapped into a catapult the size of a small city and slung at 30,000 miles an hour directly into the sun. Not only that, but the entire population of his home planet Earth would be baked, served up and eaten by Garudas from the farthest reaches of outer space. He was tense, to say the least.

Tense, yet relaxed, given the enormity of the situation. He was Biff Buffle, fraternity brother and all around good guy, and a heck of a golfer, too. He’d been golfing ever since he was five when his father first took him to the driving range and discovered that Biff could out drive him with a 3 iron. Biff progressed from there, and soon was playing in tournaments throughout his state; often winning them and amazing grown men with his skills. He won his first amateur championship at just nine and won the US open five years in a row starting when he was 13. He owned the Masters winning it twelve times in a row.

Because he came from a rich family – he drove a rolls Royce golf cart whenever he played at his home course – he always gave away his money to charities and because of this he was beloved on Earth and in the nearby Solar Systems. Thus, it was something of a shock when the representative of the UPGA (Universe Professional Golf Association) showed up at his door with the proposal from the Garudas.

Myths and legends, apocryphal stories handed down from generation to generation had long told of the mysterious race known as Garudas. Dwelling in the darkest and deepest reaches of space the squat reptilians were fierce and warlike, brutal and cruel, and as fierce and warlike, brutal and cruel as they were, the legends said they were also excellent golfers.

No one knew the truth except those unlucky enough to who feel the wrath and the nine irons of the Garudas. And according to legend there were many of those unlucky creatures who had fallen beneath the clubs of the Garudas and then slipped into their cooking pots, usually boiling alive until their skins popped open and their insides slid out into the pot. Biff knew all of this, but the offer of a golf challenge by the Garudas proved too much to forgo. Further, he knew if he refused to play they would eat everyone Earth anyway.

For months he practiced carefully, always nervous that his mistake might doom the entire world – the world which loved him. Also, word had gotten out and more and more pressure had been placed on him when, it seemed, everyone on earth emailed him begging him not to lose. The only time he ever felt free was when he took to the links and driving his Rolls Royce golf cart he practiced to beat the Garudas.

Off to his left Biff could hear the raspy breathing of his Garuda opponent and his caddy. It was hard to concentrate with that breathing in his ear. In, in, in, in, then one loooong exhalation. Then it began again in, in, in, in, ooooooout. Their strange four lung breathing technique drove him crazy. Of course, it meant they could stay underwater for days, but here on dry land on Earth it was just a distraction.

He lined up the put again, moved the putter head away from the ball and then stroked through the ball sending it toward the hole. It rolled, rolled, rolled toward the hole wobbling slightly as golf balls do upon the smooth, but not perfectly smooth mat of grass that is a putting surface on a well maintained golf course. It dipped toward the hole then suddenly, at the last moment, it veered to the right and came to a stop, still on the green three inches from the hole.

The breathing of the Garudas slowly turned into malevolent chuckling as they realized they had won, and Biff realized that he had lost and doomed the Earth to death. Throughout the world millions of persons shot, stabbed, hung and jumped to their deaths. Anything was better than the Garuda’s stew pot.

Biff looked up at the camera, a chagrinned look on his face. He shook his head, then smiled. “Oh well,” he mouthed to the camera, “good thing I’m a psychopath with a terminal illness.”

Then the camera shut down and around the world the pictures died. Biff Buffle said goodbye and flew off toward his rendezvous with the sun and as darkness fell upon the Earth the true carnage began.