Cow Pasture golf is not a real sport. But I think it should be.

My childhood friend The Slug passed away last week. We hadn't kept in touch as much as we probably could have, and a lot of that was my fault. He'd call, and I'll admit that sometimes I screened -- and then put off calling him back. I'm not sure why. Other times I'd pick up and we'd chat, catch up a little, talk about getting together and then never end up doing it.

We had known each other since the 7th grade, but over the years our lives took drastically different paths. I found that we didn't have much in common any more, once you got past the shared memories of our childhood. It was a sad realization, but sometimes that's just the way life happens. He was sometimes difficult to be around, and that was another part of it. His current situation wasn't all that happy, and somewhere along the line I think he became bitter because life had short-changed him. A lot of it was his own fault, to be sure, but some of it wasn't. I can't say I blame him. God knows he dealt with his health issues better than I would have had it been me.

I probably wasn't as good a friend to him as I could have been, and I do regret that. Sometimes that realization comes too late and there's not much you can do about it except look around at the other people in your life and try not to let the same thing happen with them.

Now that his funeral is over, I find myself wondering whether it's better to just drop dead in your tracks, or linger a few weeks in the hospital, knowing there's nothing anyone can do. If you just drop dead, it's easy for you, hard for everyone else. If you linger, then it's just hard on everyone. I guess in the latter instance, you get to say goodbye, but still - it's like a final reminder of all that you're being forced to give up. He got to see his two boys one last time, so there's that. I don't know. I hope that whichever option he thought was best is the one he got. He deserved that much, at least.

All that said, I think the best way I can honor his life and our friendship is to tell a few more of our stories. He loved to laugh and loved to reminisce, so here's one that will hopefully let you do one and me do both:

When The Slug and I were about 15, we became obsessed with golf. I'm not sure exactly why -- neither of us had parents who golfed on a regular basis. My grandfather was a really good golfer, and he'd take me out to the sand pit and we'd hit a bucket of balls every once in a while, but that was it.

I think it started when we found the old golf clubs in the barn. There was a driver, a nine iron and a putter. What more do you need, right? We pulled them out, dusted them off and started hitting the old golf balls that were tucked in the pocket of the cracked leather bag. We had no idea what the hell we were doing, and we probably looked like a couple of complete idiots out there in the field, but eventually we began making contact. We even started reading books on how to golf.

Geeks, I know. But since the porn dried up, this was what we were reduced to.

This golf obsession led to one of the worst ideas we ever had, at least in retrospect. We didn't have enough money to play real golf, so we set up our own 'golf course' in the cow pasture. We used wooden stakes and rags as flag pins. It was a little three-hole course - out over the stream to the first hole, left across the field to the second hole, and then back across the stream to the last hole. That one was tricky because you were hitting back towards the buildings. Normally not a problem because...well, because we sucked, but occasionally dangerous for that exact reason.

I'm sure all this sounds pretty boring, and really, playing golf is only one step up on the boredom scale from watching it on TV, but our game had more interesting hazards. The first thing we had to do, of course, was to make The Rules.

The Rules didn't necessarily have anything to do with "normal" golf rules. The rules were as follows:

(1) If you hit a cow, you can subtract a stroke, because that's just awesome. (Cows can run. Way faster than you. Just so you know.)

(2) The fox hole and surrounding area is off-limits (We fully believed the old wives' tale that a fox seen during the day was rabid. Mulligans were definitely allowed in this instance.)

(3) If the farmer comes out and starts yelling at you because you hit the barn by mistake or a cow on purpose, whoever is ahead wins.

(4) Play it where it lies. If the other guy catches you moving your ball, you lose.

That last one actually is a golf rule. There is no pushing, prodding, tapping or scooping of the ball allowed. In friendly play, you bend this rule all the time. Not us. You play it where it lies, no matter what. That was our single most important rule, and also the most potentially dangerous.

Why? Because, as all good cow pastures are, this pasture was full of cows. And because it was full of cows, it was also full of that particular byproduct of cows - namely, cow shit.

A LOT of it.

Normally, this is not necessarily a bad thing, unless you happen to be walking in the field playing golf. Or if you happen to be a cow. In that case, it can be a bummer because you spend most of your day scrounging around for the good grass, by which I mean the grass you and the rest of your friends haven't crapped on. And these were meat cows, not milk cows. I'm not sure if that makes any difference in the consistency of their crap. Maybe there's some cow expert out there who can tell me, because these cows seemed to exclusively drop giant loads of splashy brown custard.

The same situation that makes grazing difficult also makes golfing difficult, especially with rule number 4 in full-force. Remarkably, we managed to play many, many holes of golf with no issues other than the normal ones of losing balls in the mud, in the stream and in the pond -- and of course, the relatively un-normal ones of losing balls near the fox hole, hitting the barn or house, or having to poke a cow in the ass with a golf club in order to take the next shot.

Then one day it happened. The Slug teed up, hit a great drive about 150 yards, and scored a direct hit into a fresh pile. I saw the splash and burst out laughing. He just shook his head and said, "Awww, man. That's gross." I hit next, and my ball landed probably ten feet short of where his was. As we walked out, I reminded him of the rule. "Play it where it lies," I said. He looked at me in disbelief.

"It landed in a fresh pile of cow shit," he said, as if I hadn't understood the ramifications of the splash.

"Yeah I know," I replied, grinning evilly. "And if you don't follow the rules, you lose." We were friends, but we were also pretty competitive. We had five bucks riding on best two out of three, and I had won the first round.

We jumped the stream, dodging the random piles of cow crap until we came to his ball. The stench was fearsome. His ball had hit and stuck, spraying cow crap three feet in all directions, forming a perfect crater around his ball.

"No way," he said. "I'm not getting near that mess."

"Then you lose, and that's best two out of three, and you owe me five bucks. Play it where it lies, or don't play it and pay up."

You suck," he said.

"Yeah, I know. I'm hitting first. Something here stinks." I said.

My ball was resting on a clump of grass, so I got a good piece of it, and it sailed over the second flag and into the woods on the edge of the field. "Dammit!," I muttered.

"Serves you right," he said, walking gingerly toward his ball. "This is disgusting."

I couldn't help laughing at him. It looked like he was tip-toeing through a minefield.

I stood a safe distance away and watched him get ready to take his shot. His stance was far too wide, as a result of trying to keep his sneakers out of the splash zone. I expected him to swing gingerly, just to pop the ball clear of the mess, and take the stroke.

But he didn't.

In spite of his wide stance, he swung like Tiger Woods and connected with the ball. He also connected with about a half-pound of wet cow shit that sprayed everywhere. His shoes, his shirt, his hair, his pants -- everywhere. I was laughing so hard, I was crying. Neither of us saw where his ball went.

He stood there for a second, arms out, looking down at his shit-covered shirt. Then before I could comprehend what was happening, he chopped down hard with the club, only this time it was in my direction. Before I could move, a spray of cow shit hit me, pretty much covering me from my armpits to my feet. I spotted a nearby pie and swung into it, spraying him again. By that time, we were both laughing hysterically, swinging shit-laden golf clubs at each other, frantically searching for fresh piles to send flying in each other's general direction. Yes, it was disgusting. Yes, the stench made us gag, but goddammit we never laughed so hard in our lives.

Eventually, we called a truce and then slogged back to his house. We hosed ourselves off outside as best we could, then went in to get some lunch. Luckily his mother wasn't home. He gave me a dry T-shirt and pair of jeans, and we dropped all the disgusting clothes into the washing machine. Then we sat down in the kitchen and made a couple of triple-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Tri-D PBJ's, we called them.

I think that was the last time we played cow pasture golf. Both of us got jobs at Star Market the following summer, and when we golfed we did it on a real golf course. Eventually, we even got pretty good at it.

We never forgot our humble beginnings though. From that day on, every time either of us picked up a nine iron we couldn't help but laugh to ourselves.

I'm not sure what happens to you when you die, but if golf is involved, I hope it's the regular kind.

Rest in peace, my friend. You were the first of our own.