From: Mark Georg To: Subject: Re: Curse You, FUBU!!! (WAS: RSGOHIO 2000 International Report) Date: Tuesday, September 19, 2000 10:37 AM > > Coops kindly offered John a rematch at this years RSG-OH and > > a chance to regain some of his self respect. The first four holes > > were not kind to Coops -- the FUBU ball was obviously cursed > > and brought back luck upon its user, John 4 up after 4 holes. > > The most important question left unanswered in the aftermath > of RSG-Ohio 2000... > > Where is that FUBU ball now??? > > All I know is, it had better be out of the state of Ohio and preferably > out of the USA before I come there next year. The FUBU ball is one > of the things that Bobby Jones no doubt was referring to that can > not be withstood with the golf club still in ones hand. > It seemed like an innocent decision at the time. Tee'd off on 17 at Champions, just off the tee a golf ball lay in wait. Who was with me at the time? Hoskins? Koening? Hutto? No matter. We examined the ball. FUBU, it said. F***ed Up Beyond ? We left it lay in the grass, innocent, unassuming. Saturday came, and the rsg-ohio tournament was in full swing. I played with Dave T, Fred S and Joe Dean. Many, many provisionals were hit, especially on one particular hole. Which hole? 12? 13? No matter. I had striped a drive to the left side of the fairway. I was in quest of the Coffeemaker Trophy and still in the running. I was in the middle of a match with Fred, down a few holes but still alive. The three others hit "pronounced fades" into the high grass to the right of the fairway. More than a few provisionals were hit, then hit again, for the firsts hits were not as far as the original tee shots. I helped search for the provisionals, then made my way to my tee shot. I studied the elements, my lie, the distance. I was focused. Meanwhile my fellow competitors had each found their tee shots. "Pick up my provisionals" Fred called. I said I would. But I was focused. Focused on the quest for the trophy, on my match, on my approach shot. I struck a 9 iron, it flew to the green. Elated, I continued down the fairway. Behind me, to my right, in the fairway, lay a golf ball, innocent, unassuming. FUBU. I never saw the ball again. But afterwards, as the scores were totalled, I learned of the curse of the FUBU. Yes, Brent had played a wrong ball, a ball that I had twice now left laying behind me on the course, innocent, unassuming. Brent, I'm sorry that you experienced the curse. But if I see that ball at Fripp, you can bet your sweet ass that it's going to be F***ed Up Beyond Usability!