Friday, May 7, 2010


Wait, golf? What was I thinking?

I wasn’t

Almost all of you have heard my rants on things that I just do not understand whatsoever. Water bottles, Guys in pink shirts, Spongebob Squarepants, you know the gist. Golf however, can be added to my anti-activity list of things that I will never grasp or appreciate. And those feelings were only confirmed yesterday when I made multiple attempts to hit a small white dimpled thing into a hole 4.25 inches wide, 300 yards away.

Growing up, my Dad was an insane golfer. INSANE! This was a man who would snowplow the greens in December to get a few putting sessions in. A man who had the Royal Greens clubhouse as the only phone number on his speed dial. A man who was late for his own funeral simply because he had a tee time that morning and was trying to squeeze in the back 9 before the eulogy was read. Yeah, he loved golf that much.

Now coming from my 6-and-a-half foot tall perspective, golf just wasn’t my thing. I never understood how people got enjoyment from hitting things all over the place and then walking to hit them again. I couldn’t figure out how to “read greens” or how to use a pitching wedge 30 yards out. I didn’t really know why a bunch of old guys liked to play with their little balls all day long (no pun intended.)

Don’t ask me what I was thinking as we teed up yesterday. Maybe it was because I was trying to be part of the X-Club golfing extravaganza, or that I owed Holland a favor for a few things that I’m not proud of. Heck, I probably had been smoking pot that morning, which in turn motivated me to lace up and tee off.

Three hours, nine lost balls, and a broken axle on the golf cart later, I confirmed my abhorrence for the Tiger Woods pastime. And no I am not referring to hookers and a beat up Escalade.

I was Tin Cup plus Happy Gilmore. The Dwight Howard of the 19th hole. A man who confused golfing with croquet. I was a maniac. I thought I did pretty well out there. I think I shot a 36? 37? And then on the second hole I shot a 31? Something like that. It was such a catastrophe that by the 5th hole, I simply started using nothing but the six iron. To tee off, chip, putt, wave around in madness, and smack myself in the face with. Well, that and my hand wedge…

The way I was looking at it, I was looking for a bowling score out there, and trying to get the highest score. And I did. Heck I shot so well I broke 100 on 9 holes. Which in golfing terms is something viewed at in almost a reverse perspective. Either way, I was on fire. Holland put it best when he said If I was going to pay the 19 bucks to be out there, I might as well try and take as many shots as possible.

I thought I did pretty well at that

Maybe I just haven’t been bred for the sport of golf. I know that my 93-year old three-fingered great grandpa hits a tee shot with a putter further than I probably will ever drive period. Maybe it’s the basketball shorts that I would wear that separates me from the real golfers. Yeah, that has to be it. The fashion. My lack of nipple high slacks and plaid collared shirts with a goofy beret makes it so that I don’t fit into the golf world. The fashion is my Achilles heel in this whole thing.

Somewhere, my Dad is shaking his head.

What do you think?


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