(After a record number of days without sun, local golfers are eagerly heading to the local links to swat at little white balls. The Robinson Family history with golf is a long one. For them, golf is more than a good walk spoiled and includes some comical mishaps. Here are a few we thought you might enjoy.)

By Jerry Robinson
My brother Albert used to caddy at Columbia Edgewater next to the Columbia River in Portland when he was 13 and often brought home golf balls way back in 1930. One time he gave a scarred up one and I foolishly cut it open to see what was inside. Using Dad's hacksaw.

I found another ball about a half inch around inside. I then cut open the inner ball which full of gooey pure white liquid and got it all over my hands and scared me because I could not find anything to get the icky stuff off my hands.

I was in panic when I heard my mother yell that dinner was on the table.
"Come and get it or I will feed it to the hogs."

Of course, we did not have any hogs except my four brothers, but the threat was scary.
That inner ball was wrapped with a continuous rubber band. The white outside hard rubber cover was really tough.

I admitted that I had ruined one of Albert's golf balls.

That was when my Mom told us an amazing story.

Her Dad, my grandfather, his name was Charles Scott. He was a pattern maker by trade, and he had invented the machine that wound the inner continuous rubber band inside all golf balls at that time.

He had a partner who was a lot smarter businessman than he was who had taken the plans for the continuous rubber band machine and got the patent for himself.

Grampa died in what, at the time, was called a poorhouse.

He coulda been a rich guy.

By Ken Robinson
It was 1975 and Twin Lakes Golf and Country Club in Federal Way was a fairly new course surrounded by ranch houses. The fairways are tight and players are rewarded with lower scores if they can keep the ball down the middle, or at least inbounds.

I was an average golfer, about an 18 handicap. Playing at that level meant not all shots were straight or even sent in a predictable direction. On the fourth hole, a dogleg left, I squibbed a drive off the tee about 150 yards to the right. The ball followed an arc like a banana, crossing the edge of the fairway and a manicured yard. It almost seemed to fly in slow motion as it smashed through the kitchen window of a yellow house. My mouth went dry.

In the kitchen was a guy the size of Man Mountain Dean. He came out onto the lawn as I approached. I apologized in my most obsequious manner. He said "Come on in and write down your name and address and I'll have the window replaced and send you the bill." The course rule was that if you break a window, you are obligated to pay.

I dutifully followed the big guy into the house, stepping gingerly onto what appeared to be new linoleum.

Unfortunately, I neglected to remove my golf shoes as I went inside. I could feel the steel spikes sinking into the soft new flooring. I got to the counter and wrote my name and address, glancing once at the broken glass in the sink and on the floor. I did not want to draw attention to the fact that I had just aerated his new floor because he was a pretty big guy and I did not want a bloody nose.

So I began a trailing apology as I backed up toward the door, attempting to step in the same holes I had made on the way in.

I got outside without further incident, took a penalty for going out of bounds, and still parred the hole. So it ended well other than the $64 I had to pay for the window.

By Tim Robinson

While playing golf out at Tyee in the late '70s I stood on the tee of the 300-yd. par four 14th hole waiting for the group ahead to hit their approach shots. It was the White Center Jubilee Days tourney.

The group advanced with all players on the putting surface except one chap in the right hand bunker. I turned to our group announcing that I was going to tee off, as it was safe to do so.

I made all the right moves connecting on the drive down the right side with a bit of a left turn. It landed in front of the bunker on the fly, took a large hop and smacked the fellow right between the shoulder blades as he stood preparing to hit out of the sand. The poor guy turned in anger to see me back on the tee in my follow-through. While momentarily stunned, he looked back down at his own ball and proceeded to finish the hole.

I ambled up the fairway eventually arriving near my ball now resting quite near where his once laid. I sheepishly walked over to the next tee area to apologize for striking this man with my ball. He accepted my apology immediately congratulating me with what was obviously alcohol-laced admiration. "Thhhaaat's ooookaaay", he muttered, "annyyyone who cannnhit a balllthat far cannhit me annyytime..."

Still shaken from the incident I went back to the trap to hit my next shot. I barely made it out of the sand due to my emotional state. As luck runs in my family, I stroked my next shot into the hole for a very unlikely birdie. The ball raced far too fast across the green. It hit the hold dead on, popping straight up into the air a good foot before falling directly back into the hole.