Trouble with the Green

Trouble with the Green

A once-in-a-lifetime invitation to golf’s most prestigious tournament should be the break Lee Douglas has been waiting for. A longtime journeyman with more near-misses than victories, Douglas arrives with his loyal but bumbling caddie, Victor Danielson, hoping to chase glory on the biggest stage in the sport.

But the dream quickly veers off course.

Over one frantic thirteen-day stretch, Douglas and Danielson find themselves tangled in corporate schemes, small-town chaos, bizarre locals, drug-sniffing dogs, surreal mishaps, and one wildly inappropriate camel. As pressure mounts and the rules begin to bend, they discover that professional golf can be far more dangerous than drives, chips, and putts.

Funny, unpredictable, and packed with escalating trouble, Trouble with the Green is a comic golf adventure about ambition, friendship, and what happens when everything goes spectacularly wrong.

Start reading Trouble with the Green today.

Excerpt from the book

The storm siren mooed.

“Not ‘moo,’” said Global Elite Golf Tour Co-Vice President Edward Thornton, exasperated but still grinding his hips in a slow, overdramatic, counterclockwise manner, a technique he saw in a porn flick at age fifteen and still mimicked today. “Baaahh.”

“Baaahh,” said Fancy, the unimaginatively named thirty-something prostitute who lay under Thornton in a secluded gazebo on a golf course outside Orlando, set to host the Clean and Smooth Suntan Corporation Open. Fancy was questioning two things. First, where did the “moo” Thornton referenced originate? It certainly wasn’t her. Second, why was Thornton moving his hips like this? Did he have a pulled groin or back issues? “Baaahh.”

“That’s better, baby. Baaahh.”

“Baaahh.”

“So good, baby. Very authentic.”

In fact, passers-by, had there been any, might have agreed with Thornton’s assessment. Though they would not have stopped to say so, given the circumstances. Thornton, who held a number of non-traditional sexual predilections, wore a Little Bo Peep costume during the tryst. Fancy, without a costume or clothing of any kind, was paid extra for special vocals.

“Baaahh,” Fancy said again, hoping the sound might spur Thornton to the finish line sooner rather than later because bedding Bo Peep leaned toward awkward. “Baaahhhhhh.”

“So good.”

“Baaahhhhh.”

“That’s it, baby! That’s it!”

“Baaaahhhh.”

“That’s it. That’s…aaahhhh! I! Am! Bo! Peep!” Thornton finished with a high-pitched moan that bore an unsettling similarity to the sound of a screaming possum.

Fancy, because she was a pro, offered a soft and tender, “Baaahh.”

Then the storm siren sounded again. “Moo!” In the distance, a lightning bolt spiked the earth with an ear-splitting crack. There was a moment of silence followed by several ground-shaking explosions, billowing smoke, and towering flames that licked the sky.

Thornton gasped.

Fancy stayed in character. “Baaahh?”

Thornton dismounted and, at least in Fancy’s opinion, exhibited incredible dexterity, especially considering the back injury, in shedding the Bo Peep outfit and donning his golf shirt, khaki pants, and all-white Skechers. He handed Fancy three crisp $100 bills and raced toward the clubhouse.

Per sworn statements from two ex-wives, Johnnie “John Boy” Coombs was an “egomaniacal, cheap sleazebag” and a “lying, cheating son of a bitch who gave me herpes. Twice.”

Coombs was the owner of Yeux Marrons, the Florida country club hosting the Clean and Smooth Suntan Corporation Open. He made his fortune from one of those sketchy payday loan companies. They give you $500 today, you give them $600 tomorrow. Unless you can’t pay tomorrow. Then it’ll be $700 or $800 or $900, depending on how many additional days you need. Most people who patronized such places did not grasp the math within their contracts. All they saw was “EASY LOANS” in yellow neon on the store window, and later the repo man pulling down their street to take back a new model Dodge Charger with its throaty engine and obscene bass bumping on the stereo system. Neighbors who watched these tow trucks always said a silent prayer of thanks. Their sanity and peaceful evenings were once again safe. The victims were less thankful and often complained to anyone who would listen.