The GOATS rugby club got its name from an acronym.
Officially, it stood for Greater Omaha Area Touring Side Rugby Club.
Unofficially, it stood for exactly what you’d expect.
A bunch of grown men built like farm equipment running full speed into each other every weekend somehow decided a goat was the perfect mascot.
Years ago, a guy named Corey invited me to play in the GOATS’ annual golf tournament.
I’d known Corey from an advertising job in Omaha. Back then he was fresh out of college, about six-foot-two and maybe 180 pounds soaking wet.
A few years later I ran into him again at a bar.
The Corey I remembered had apparently been replaced by a refrigerator with arms.
Somewhere between graduation and our reunion, rugby had happened.
He was pushing 275 pounds, solid as concrete, and playing for the GOATS.
When he invited me to golf with his foursome, I figured it would be a fun afternoon.
I was right.
I just didn’t realize how different rugby players were from the rest of us.
Our foursome included Corey, a guy named Mike who had gone to high school with my wife Laura, another teammate whose name I’ve unfortunately lost to time, and me.
I usually drink a couple beers and some Gatorade while golfing.
These guys approached hydration like they were preparing for the end of civilization.
Beer after beer disappeared.
Whiskey shots appeared at every tee box.
And they weren’t the only foursome doing it.
By the time we reached the tenth green, the tournament was beginning to show signs of wear.
The first clue was that there was no flag in the cup.
Nobody knew why.
Corey’s approach shot had landed closest to the hole, so we used his ball. Mike was our best putter, so naturally we let him go first.
He lined it up.
Stroke.
Birdie.
Everybody cheered.
We’d survived another hole.
Then Mike bent over to retrieve his ball.
And immediately froze.
The reason there wasn’t a flag in the cup was because the foursome ahead of us had left a little surprise.
Someone had taken a dump in the hole.
To this day, I feel like golf needs a name for that.
There are terms for everything else.
Birdie.
Eagle.
Albatross.
Surely there should be an official term for discovering a human turd in the cup.
Whatever it’s called, we unanimously agreed that Mike’s ball should remain exactly where it was.
We were on a golf course.
There wasn’t a wash station nearby.
And nobody wanted to spend the rest of the round shaking hands with a guy who had poop fingers.
So we accepted the birdie, left the evidence undisturbed, and moved on.
The alcohol continued to move on too.
A few holes later we reached the port-a-potty on the back nine.
Mike announced he needed a bathroom break.
Unlike the mystery golfer ahead of us, he was apparently a man of principle.
He disappeared inside.
Thirty seconds later Corey looked at me and said, “Hang on.”
Those words should have concerned me more than they did.
Instead, I just grabbed the side of the golf cart.
Corey slammed the accelerator.
The cart shot forward.
The port-a-potty was chained to a large maple tree.
At full speed Corey rammed it.
The impact sent the entire thing spinning around the tree like a carnival ride.
The door flew open.
Mike came flying out.
A split second later he was followed by a wave of bright blue port-a-potty water.
Fortunately, he landed safely.
Unfortunately, the rest of us couldn’t breathe.
We were laughing so hard that tears were running down our faces.
The kind of laughter where your stomach hurts.
The kind where you try to stop but only make it worse.
The kind that comes around less and less as you get older.
Eventually we regained enough composure to finish the round.
There was a steak dinner afterward, which was probably the only reason any of us remained upright long enough to collect our pin prizes.
We didn’t win the tournament.
In fact, I don’t remember our score.
I don’t remember who won.
I don’t remember much about the golf at all.
What I remember is a missing flag.
A birdie nobody wanted to retrieve.
A rugby player getting launched out of a spinning port-a-potty.
And a group of friends laughing so hard that for a few hours nothing else in the world mattered.
The older I get, the more I realize that most friendships aren’t built during the important moments.
They’re built during the ridiculous ones.
Nobody sits around twenty years later talking about a seven iron they hit on the fourteenth hole.
But they’ll remember the day somebody pooped in the cup and another guy got ejected from a portable toilet.
Some memories stay with you because they were meaningful.
Others stay with you because they were unbelievably stupid.
The best friendships usually give you both.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
