I was one of about five people in the Beverly C.C. prooshp/caddy shack when it was leveled by the tornado. I was 13, a caddy, filling in for my older brother as a club cleaner. I never saw it coming, only heard a terrible thunderstorm that turned the afternoon pitch black. Another pro shop worker named Eddie Staffan tackled me just before it hit, throwing both of us behind tall metal racks that were anchored in concrete and held members' golf bags. They were about the only things left standing. I can still remember the cold, dusty gusts as they tore through the roof and walls. Yes, it sounded like a freight train. I still have a scar on my knuckle from where flying glass from the front window hit my right hand. We had to dig three (I think) people out from under a card table in the front office, where they had hidden themselves at the last minute. No one was seriously injured, although everyone was in total shock. My knuckle didn't start bleeding for five or 10 minutes. I had no idea what had hit us. Standing in the club parking lot, another stunned survivor asked, What the hell was that? It was only then that I heard the word tornado.

If that isn't fake, then I'm a monkey's uncle...