Sunday, August 10, 2014

Golf Makes You Nuts

There are two reasons I think have finally put me in the subcategory of a senior citizen. 1. When my teenage server born in the late 90's at Cafe Rio greets me with the title of "sir" instead of "buddy", and 2. When I look at the sport of golf as my ultimate relief of stress.

For full effect, download "Black Betty", by RamJam and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. Go ahead, you can thank Rick Palmer for that one.

You have all 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, holds a feeling in my heart as to something I used to abhor like a Michael Bay film, but now adore like my Mom's thanksgiving Jell-o.

Growing up my Dad was an insane golfer. Insane kids, I promise you that. This was a man who would snowplow the fairway in December to get a few extra 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 nine before the eulogy was read. Yeah, he loved golf that much.

Now coming from my 6-and-a-half foot tall perspective, golf just isn'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 the first time I teed up a shot. Maybe it was because I was trying to be part of my college X-Club golfing extravaganza, or that I owed my BFF at the time Holland a favor for a few things that I’m not proud of. Heck, I had probably been smoking pot that morning for all I know, 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 unnamed prostitutes 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. 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.

At the time I didn't think I was bred for the sport of golf. But things have changed. Golf is my addiction. It's my release. I'm no pro, or amateur, or novice, or person with any type of experience in this sport whatsoever, but I still L-word it. I know my 96-year old three-fingered dead great grandpa could a tee shot with a putter further than I probably will ever drive period. Maybe it's that I haven't bought into golf apparel and still wear basketball shorts when I tee off. Yeah, that has to be it. The fashion. My lack of nipple high slacks and plaid collared shirts with a goofy beret ensure I will never fit into the golf world. The fashion could my Achilles heel in this whole thing.

Somewhere, my Dad is shaking his head.

What do you think?

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