Whomper

The other day something was rattling around in the trunk of my car, generally making an annoyance of itself. When I checked it out, I discovered that it was Whomper Junior, whom I hadn’t thought of in quite a long time. I smiled upon seeing him, as he brought back many happy memories of a simpler time, but I also felt a hint of melancholy, as I knew that the part of my life involving Whomper Jr. and all of his associates was now over.

Whomper Jr., for those of you wondering, is a golf club, but before I can discuss him, I first have to go back to his father, the original Whomper.

Many Christmases ago, my brother gave me a children’s golf set as a joke. The clubs were metal, but quite flimsy and short. They consisted of a driver, a putter, and a wedge. I also received some practice golf balls, which were essentially ping-pong balls, and a small plastic “hole” to putt into. It didn’t take my brother and I long to realize that this joke gift might lend itself to some serious entertainment in the form of indoor golf. That was indeed a memorable Christmas day, consisting of two individuals already out of college running around the house, hauling off on ping pong balls, and laughing hysterically as they bounced off of walls, furniture, parents, etc. I still remember us trying to chip from the living room into the kitchen, with the ultimate target being a pot of bubbling wax on the stove my Mom was going to use to make candles. (My brother managed to hit the pot once, which was as close as we got.)

At some point, either that day or shortly after, the driver got named Whomper, which is a reference to a gigantic slingshot in one of Patrick F. McManus’s stories, which I highly recommend everybody reads, along with his other works. It was a good name, and we used it as often as possible. (“All right Whomper, don’t let me down!” “This shot would be impossible for anybody but Whomper!” “Whoops, I bent Whomper in half! Wow, he’s flimsy!”)

From that point on came the golden age of mini-golf. I played it in my apartment with a couple of good friends, and it was hilarious, especially the bathtub hole, which torpedoed all of my hopes of winning. Soon the three of us were playing it outside, including on Madeline Island, which is part of the Apostle Islands, Enger Park in Duluth, and even once near the border of Canada. By this point I was calling it Cross Country Mini-Golf, and it was a hit. Then came the trip out west with the same two friends. We played at a campground named Indian Hill in Montana, which included one hole that you had to make your initial drive while standing on a gigantic boulder.

Next, we played at Yankee Jim Canyon campground, just outside of Yellowstone, where we had a serious jumble of rocks to get lost amidst.

Sadly, it wasn’t until sometime later that we realized that we’d left Whomper at the campground, and it was too late to go back and get him. It was a pretty gloomy moment, as Whomper was a good friend. We hoped that somebody nice would find him and give him a good home.

After the trip, I bought another club and named him Whomper Jr. However, it turns out that the magic of Cross Country Mini-Golf was gone. I tried to play it a couple of times afterwards, but it just wasn’t nearly as much fun. It wasn’t because of the loss of Whomper, as Whomper Jr. did more than hold his own. It was just that the entire sport had run its course and lost some of its luster. (Just like dodgeball did a few years back.) So it turns out that the Montana trip was one last magnificent swan song for a truly entertaining activity, and maybe its best that we lost Whomper there, because there’s always a chance that somebody else is using him now, having just as much fun as we once did.

Ever since then, Whomper Jr. has sat in my car, along with the other clubs, basically neglected for years. At first I’d hoped that someday the urge to play would come back, but it never did, and I’ve come to realize that Cross Country Mini-Golf was destined to be short-lived but glorious, and maybe that’s for the better. I’m probably too old to be hacking my way through some campground with golf clubs that are much too short for me, looking to the casual eye like some maniac loose with a weed-whacker.

Sometimes you just need to know when to let go.

So, does anybody need a comically undersized golf club or three? I’ll sell them cheap. You just have to promise not to rename the driver. I owe him that much.