05/23/2026
THE STORY OF THE FIRST CGA EVENT BACK IN MAY OF ‘26
(A satirical, “loosely” based on fact, AI created, telling of a story of thirteen golfers at the WCF Convention)
By the time the sun came up over Saskatoon, thirteen Cosmopolitan members had already convinced themselves they were elite athletes.
The Western Canada Foundation Convention didn’t officially begin until the end of the day, but at Holiday Park Championship Golf Course, the unofficial opening ceremonies were underway. Under virtual direction by Terry Down, Rick G stood in the parking lot with a clipboard, a coffee the size of a flower vase, and the kind of determined expression usually seen on air traffic controllers.
“Remember,” Rick announced, “this is a dignified sporting event.”
That statement lasted approximately forty-seven seconds.
Cheryl arrived, carrying a tote bag filled with golf prizes and enough sunscreen to protect a small village. John showed up wearing golf shoes so bright they could probably guide aircraft at night. John claimed he had once shot “two under par,” though no one could determine whether he meant golf or body temperature. Kathleen brought a stack of mystery prizes wrapped in newspaper that immediately became the most talked-about items of the day.
The teams were organized with military precision and immediately ignored.
At Hole One, the TV cameras Terry had dramatically warned everyone about in his last update turned out to be one college student with a tripod and another guy eating a muffin. Nevertheless, every golfer suddenly transformed into a professional athlete.
Brian took three practice swings, missed the ball entirely, and still bowed to imaginary applause, these could be his last. Shawna accidentally drove her cart into a sand trap while trying to wave at a goose. Shawn insisted the geese were “judging his backswing.”
By the third hole, the Cosmopolitan Golf Association — the legendary CGA — had fully embraced chaos.
The contest for Longest Drive became serious business after Dan launched a golf ball so far left that it crossed another fairway, bounced off a sprinkler head, and nearly landed beside the beverage cart. Kathy called it “creative course management.”
Closest to the Pin was briefly interrupted when Kathleen’s shot hit the pin dead center, bounced backward, and rolled into the water. She claimed the pin “moved slightly.”
Meanwhile, Mel quietly became the unexpected assassin of the tournament. While everyone else argued about mulligans, wind speed, and whether breakfast sandwiches counted as athletic fuel, she calmly sank putts from impossible distances. Rumors spread that she had secretly practiced all spring.
At Hole Nine, disaster nearly struck when John attempted an ambitious shot over a pond and instead launched his club farther than the ball. The club was retrieved by a teenager in a kayak who accepted payment in the form of convention snack vouchers.
By lunchtime, scorekeeping had become mostly fictional.
One foursome claimed a score of 42, though witnesses suggested it was mathematically impossible. Let’s face it, Dan was in charge of the scorecard!
Another team had lost two golf balls, three pencils, a visor, and somehow an entire scorecard.
Still, spirits remained high. The prize table beside the clubhouse grew larger as everyone added donations. Gift cards, golf towels, miniature Saskatchewan souvenirs, and one suspiciously heavy mystery package from Kathleen all waited for the awards ceremony.
Then came the final green.
Everything depended on the Longest Putt competition.
Silence fell across the course as Shelley lined up a monstrous putt that curved across what looked less like a green and more like a gently rolling prairie landscape. Terry dramatically whispered, “This is for first pick of the prizes.”
Shelley tapped the ball. It rolled. And rolled. And rolled. Halfway there, Dan began narrating like a golf commentator. “Can it be? Is this the shot of the century?”
The ball somehow curved around another golfer’s marker, narrowly avoided a shoe, and dropped into the cup with a clunk that could probably be heard in downtown Saskatoon.
The clubhouse erupted. Even the geese looked impressed.
At the awards ceremony, Dan earned first prize selection and immediately chose Kathleen’s mystery package, which turned out to contain a singing mounted fish that activated every time someone opened the cooler nearby.
The best worst score of the day belonged to Cass, who accepted her consolation prize proudly and announced, “Golf is about friendships, sportsmanship, and not keeping accurate records.”
Everyone agreed that sounded exactly right.
And somewhere in the distance, Terry finally relaxed from afar, satisfied that the Western Canada Foundation Convention had officially begun in the only proper way possible:
With laughter, questionable golf, and thirteen Cosmopolitan members creating stories they’d retell for years.
