By Torleif Sorenson on 6/29/15

Your humble correspondent occasionally has weird dreams — many of which are actually nightmares. But this morning, I woke up from one that still has me shaking my head nine hours later.

In the dream / nightmare, I had just finished competing in the Masters Tournament at Augusta National Golf Club, winning the Low Amateur trophy. But I was supposed to attend another trophy presentation, along with several other players, separate from both the Butler Cabin and 18th Green ceremony. This was to be held in a large theatre located in the basement of the Augusta National clubhouse.

The problem was that I was still out on the course. WAY out on the course. I was given a golf cart to drive back to the clubhouse, but the course marshals would only let me drive on hills and steep slopes. The cart tipped over — similar to the picture below:

UPDATE: Lifeline has transported one person from the scene of a golf cart accident in Morgan County. pic.twitter.com/8YfLZrGtSu

— WTHR Assignment Desk (@WTHRDesk) August 1, 2013

Somehow, I ran around to the front entrance of the clubhouse, of which the foyer resembled a small, white, empty food court at a shopping mall.

Because this was an important ceremony, the other golfers, ANGC club members, and I all had to change from our golf clothes into black-tie. Unfortunately, my tuxedo — and those of the members and a bunch of golfers who were already late for the ceremony — were mixed up and stashed in a variety of storage containers. Each of them lay on the floor and on the grand staircase of a three-story-tall ballroom the club apparently had.

So, some twenty different golfers and I ran down the stairs, scrambling through all of these containers, looking for our clothes and our eyeglasses. Mine were not in the container my clothes were in — but everybody else's pair of glasses wound up in my container.

It was getting late. The ceremony was just beginning. A special trumpet fanfare sounded over the P.A. system in the three-story ballroom and the clubhouse. I was getting royally angry — as were the rest of us club members and golfers who were supposed to be at that award presentation.

Five, ten frantic minutes of searching followed — and I was nowhere near finding my glasses, so that I could see. Dozens of green-jacketed members and golfers were running all over the place trying to find our belongings.

Finally, someone called us back upstairs to the top level of the clubhouse — the ground level, as it turned out. Four or five of us were standing around, trying to find our tuxedos. Against the outside wall of the clubhouse was a shuttered smoothie bar. In the middle of the floor was a rack of dry cleaning, all nice and neatly wrapped in plastic and hanging from a revolving rack. Some of the suit coats were black, but some were the green jackets of various club members.

An older gentleman walked up to us five golfers, telling us that our clothes and been rearranged and scattered around by none other than... Rory McIlroy.



As if out of nowhere, McIlroy himself was standing there, glaring at us — perhaps angry at us because one of us kept him from winning the Masters Tournament. Without another word, we all pounced on the golf star. A few guys bent him backward over a sofa, another grabbed him by his red, curly hair and held him down for me.

At the end of the nightmare, I found myself pounding and flailing away at Rory's face, screaming at him to tell me where my eyeglasses were. The problem was that my arms were being held back by some unknown person out of my line of vision. But I kept punching away at Rory...

...and then I was awakened by my alarm clock. The dream / nightmare was over.
_____

Rory McIlroy, I have no idea how you got into my brain. But let's hope this is the last time I ever have THAT nightmare.


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