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Ball in the Rough	By : MadameManga Category: WWF/WWE > General Views: 1668 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrities of WWE/WWF. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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A lighthearted romp on the golf course. Based on the WWE wrestling personalities of "The Undertaker" and "Bradshaw", and the men who play them. (This was written several years ago, before John Layfield's character cut his hair and became "JBL".) All events taking place in this story are entirely fictional and a product of the author's imagination.
Ball in the Rough

by Madame Manga

"I don’t even know how to play golf, Larry!" I stared at my boyfriend over my latte and shook my head. Not for the first time, I wondered why I had ever hooked up with him in the first place. Larry was a sports freak. If it involved large sweaty men, odd clothing and arcane rules of conduct, he was into it. Sometimes I had a suspicion that he liked the large sweaty men part of it the best—he wasn’t exactly an athlete in bed with me.
"Well, you never know until you try," he said in his annoying lisp, and tore open another one of those little brown sugar packets they have at Starbucks. Larry eats way too much sugar, in my opinion. "I can’t get anyone else on such short notice. Maurice finked out on me, I have to have a partner to make it a foursome, and you can rent the clubs. Be a sport."
"That was my point. I’m not into sports. I’ll kill somebody with the ball or something."
"I doubt that," said Larry. "You won’t be able to hit it that hard anyway."
"Gee, thanks. What is this tournament, anyway?"
"Celebrity charity tournament. The celebs are all pro athletes."
"Like I couldn’t have guessed." I groaned and took a bite of my bagel. "God, look at the time. I have to get to work."
"Are we on, then?" Larry raised his brows at me. "I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven sharp. Our tee-off time is eight-fifteen."
I consider anything before nine a barbaric time of the morning. "I don’t know."
"Annie, I’m going to forfeit the entry fee if I don’t show up with a partner! I thought you were all Scotch and thrifty. I can’t believe it—Scotch, and you’ve never played golf!"
"The term is Scots, as I’ve told you a million times before—I’m not a bottle of whisky. And my dad’s Scots—I’ve never even been to Scotland. He doesn’t play golf either." I picked up my morning paper, downed the rest of my latte, and left the bagel.
"Oh, come on. Do me a favor once in a while. I’ll take you to some chick flick later this week."
"I don’t know…"
"I’ll buy dinner. Please?"
I considered that. "Not Chinese again."
"Not Chinese. You pick the restaurant. Please, no more than three dollar signs per entree."
"Ooh, big spender. All right, you’re on. You pay for this golf club rental, too."
A look of real pain crossed his face. "All right. Wear a skirt and walking shoes. This is one of those old-fashioned courses with a dress code. No women with pants."
"Women without pants are OK, then? Check." I winked at him and headed out to hail a cab. This was starting to smell like a relationship in need of a break. Like a breakup. But I had promised, and I would fulfill my obligations. As long as Larry fulfilled his and took me out to dinner and a movie. I could tell him I was dumping him after we left the theater.
...
"OK, which one is this again? The woody?"
"The 1-wood, also known as the driver. Sheesh, Annie, don’t try to make conversation, OK? You’re going to embarrass me." Larry rolled his eyes and started the golf cart. I put the bag of rented clubs between my knees and held on as the cart lurched away from the pro shop. I had really dressed the part today—I wore a tweed skirt that had been my mother’s in college, a pair of two-tone saddle shoes, an oxford blouse and a sun visor. I looked something like Katherine Hepburn in one of those movies she made with Spencer Tracy, except that I wasn’t quite as thin and wore my hair longer.
I was actually having fun. The tournament hadn’t even started yet, but I was having fun irritating Larry. He had brand new golf shoes and expensive golf duds with Nike swooshes all over them, and my retro look didn’t quite match. "You look like you think you’re golfing with Sam Snead, for God’s sake. I feel like I ought to be wearing knickerbockers." Larry took an abrupt swerve to avoid hitting a small knot of Canada geese who were standing insolently in his path. They stared at him and took simultaneous poops on the grass as we passed. "Goddamn geese. They’re everywhere."
"Yep, they sure are." I grabbed my golf bag to prevent it from falling out of the cart as Larry took another swerve down a path marked "To the Tee".
"Now, I don’t know who our athletes are. We’ll be assigned them just before we tee off. I want to take one of them in the cart with me, OK? You can ride with the other one."
"Oh, are you going to take him home with you?" I batted my eyelashes at him and made little panting sounds with my tongue hanging out. "You did say they were ours. Can I take mine home with me too?"
"Jesus. Don’t embarrass me."
"But it’s so deeply satisfying to embarrass you, Larry. You’re the one who begged me to come along."
He muttered and mumbled to himself until we lurched to a stop in an open area. A set of bleachers rose up above the manicured grass, and groups of people stood around posing for photographers or chatting. I recognized a few of the athletes—football players and basketball players, with a tennis pro here and there.
"Oh, pinch me—it’s Andre Agassi," said Larry with wide eyes. "God, I hope I get him!"
"Don’t look now, but I think he’s giving you the eye," I replied. He began to mutter to himself again. I looked around as we got out of the golf cart and walked up to a table set up near the teeing green, with a sign reading ‘Partner Assignments, L-Z’ hanging from it.
"Hello, I’m Larry Person," said Larry, holding out his entry form. "I’m pre-registered."
"What kind of person?" said the elderly man behind the table, who seemed to be hard of hearing. "Hairy? You don’t look all that hairy to me." He took the form and sorted through a box of index cards.
"No, that’s my name. Larry Person."
"I guess your parents had a sense of humor, Harry," said the old man after a long stare at Larry. "I’ve never approved of that sort of thing being perpetrated on innocent children. And your young lady?" He poised a felt pen over a sheet of sticky tags.
"Annie MacClachlan," I said, and spelled it for him. The old man made me a name tag and handed it to me; I stuck it on my oxford blouse. Larry got a pre-printed tag and a number slip.
"Wait for your number to be called," said the old man. "Whoever’s up at that point will be your playing partners for the tournament."
"Oh, gee, couldn’t you tell us who we’re getting?" said Larry. His eyes bugged out as Joe Montana walked by. "And maybe we could slip into the right spot in line…?"
"Sorry, luck of the draw." The old man shook his head and turned to the next pair of golfers.
"Oh, ugh," said Larry, staring beyond me. "Pray we don’t get any of them!"
"Who?" I asked, turning around. "Those guys?" A group of very large, muscular men had just arrived in several golf carts, and were getting out their bags. "Are they athletes, or amateurs?"
"Well," sniffed Larry, "that’s a matter of debate. Pro wrestling isn’t what I call a sport!"
"Pro wrestling?" I know precisely zero about wrestling, as I do about most things of which Larry professes a knowledge. Sometimes I think he pretends to be an expert about some things just because I’m not. I can tell that he’s faking if I have even the smallest information on the subject. Such as with sex.
"Yes; can you believe it? The organizers actually invited people from the WWF. Some poor bozos are going to be stuck playing with those low-lifes!" Larry looked at his number slip. "We’re twenty-four, so keep your ears open."
Since he had expressed such disdain, my interest was piqued. I looked over at the wrestlers again. There were six of them, some perfectly enormous and a couple of them more average-sized. Blond and dark-haired and bald, with one black man among them and one younger man with purple hair. The last one of the group got out of his cart and stretched, taking off his baseball cap, and I let out a little gasp. This one was a redhead, and he was the tallest of them all.
"What?" said Larry irritably. "Oh, darn, Andre Agassi is in group twenty!"
"Well, there goes your chance of getting a date for Saturday night," I said absently, watching the redhead.
I could only see his back, but the view was attention-getting. He wore golf shorts that showed his muscular legs from the knees down and a short-sleeved shirt. Every inch of visible skin on his massive arms, right down to the wrists, was covered with tattoos. I rather liked tattoos, though not always the people attached to them. His hair was very long for a man’s, reaching down to his shoulder blades even braided, and it shone beautifully copper-colored in the morning sun. I got a glimpse of the side of his face as he talked to another big man with dark hair, and saw a red goatee.
‘Ooh, facial hair,’ I thought. ‘Better and better.’ What really attracted my eyes, however, was his ass. He wasn’t a small man, so he didn’t have a small ass. It was big, lush, eminently squeezable-looking. My hands itched with the urge to go over and pat him on the butt. I wondered if he would mind.

Continued!
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Ball in the Rough