I suck at Golf, but I love to play. Go figure.
My golf game vaguely resembles a monkey flying an F-16. If it gets off the ground then everyone’s surprised but no one expects it to go straight. But I try to play when I can, which isn’t much. This is a good thing, because I actually don’t have to much interest in actually improving my game. This would take effort and I just don’t wanna. Other golfers out there are probably shocked by this. Hey, I am the guy that would prefer to believe that the reason that my golf game sucks is that I don’t have good clubs, not because I close my eyes and swing like it’s a piñata. I would buy a club that advertises itself as “graphite extra long distance big bertha” and assume that when it went only 25 yards that I have a defective club.
We went and played this last weekend. It’s good for me to get out of the house and do this type of thing. It recharges my manliness and lets me vent a little bit about something other than diapers and butt paste.
We were supposed to play with 3 guys but one canceled, so it was just me and my brother. This is always awkward because that means that they will pair us up with someone we don’t know. I can’t play with people like that. I am self conscious about my game and it just gets worse when people judge me. So we are paired up with a single retired guy. He’s got the golf hat, golf shoes, nice khaki pants. Crap, this guy can play. This is when I think that I will do nothing but slow him down and he will curse all that he got stuck with us. I would rather play with a homeless guy chasing squirrels.
His first swing goes roughly 280 yards, straight down the fairway.
I hit the beer girl’s cart. Time for the trusty Mulligan. O, how I love you, Mr. Mulligan. I hate the first hole. Everyone’s watching and it feels like I am doing a tap dance instead of the ballet that everyone paid to see.
My second shot goes past the women’s tee, so I am a happy camper. My brother and I jump into the cart and go down the course. Our third is walking the course, another sign that he is a much, much better golfer than me.
My irons are my strong skill in my game. I can usually hit them pretty good. By usually I meant that I get it up in the air. This one went into the trees, which will be a reoccurring theme today. I am the Lumberjack going through the woods. However, I also don’t care enough about my score to spend any real time looking for my ball. I figure if I can’t see it within 10 seconds, it’s lost. I get my balls from Walmart, so no big deal. It’s also proper golf etiquette to not waste a whole lot of time and keep those behind you waiting.
I finish the first hole with my usual 8, ending this production of hackery with a nice 3 putt. The call me the Snowman on the course. But we are already having a good time and our third guy enjoys talking to us. I am funny and have no problem making fun of my game.
We have two other groups ahead of us, a 4 player of weekend golfers with their wives driving and then another 4 some of girls ahead of that. This delayed our game, but I don’t care,. I’m in the sunshine and I know t hat now I have someone else to blame for our slow play. I can look for all the balls I want now.
But when you are playing with a lot of people around, you have to look out for Mr. Dickweed Rule boy. Everyone has seen this type of player. He is the guy that will not use his Shoe Iron to kick his ball away from a tree. He is the guy that will never allow a Mulligan. He is the guy that will insist that the player farthest away always hit first, even if I am already standing at my ball and he has to catch a taxi to the next fairway to hit his. I hate this guy.
In golf, you keep your own score and I usually play against what I made the last time out. I have no problems not assessing a penalty stroke for that wicked slice that killed the duck in the pond. I am cheating myself. We had a conference and it was decided that I had no problems cheating myself. I have to buy a new duck on occasion, but hey, that’s just the cost of playing golf.
Above all though, Mr. Dickweed hates to be stuck behind people. He is under the mindset that he should be the only one on the course. He is that kid that had the only basketball in the neighborhood and wouldn’t let anyone play with it.
We offered Mr. Dickweed to play through us, explaining that we were waiting as well for two groups ahead of us. He declined. Which surprised me because these people are very strict on golf etiquette. Ok then, we will all wait at the tee-box together then until we can go.
Around hole number nine we see a ball coming flying over our heads. There was no “Fore” yelled, no “Heads up”. Mr. Dickweed just decided he would hit it. This is a big, big no no on the course. We let it slide though and keep playing. I am not in the woods as much anymore and actually made par, so I am happy.
We are on the 13th hole when Mr. Dickweed shows up at the teebox. We are all waiting to tee off behind the family affair ahead of us.
“Did you hit a Titlelist III back there” Mr. Dickweed asks my brother. He was pissed.
“Nope” we say as we both hold up our balls, a Nike. This is Tiger’s brand which helps my game in no way.
“Are you sure.” He says accusingly.
We again assure him that we did not and again show our balls. Like I said, I’m pretty lax on the rules but I am very aware of those around me. I don’t want my poor 90 play to get in the way of their PGA tour stop. But the truth is that most everyone who plays golf sucks it hard. So usually, everyone is pretty understanding. This guy, although not good based on his drives that I saw, was one of the rule nazi’s. Considering that he didn’t hit me once in the fairway, and he took a lot of shots, he sucks balls. We again offered to let him play through, pointing at the traveling circus ahead of us. He again declined.
However, the rest of the day his balls continued to land over our heads. One time I almost did hit one of them thinking that it was mine until I saw the maker, Titlelist III. That means that his jackass was hitting when I wasn’t even to my ball yet. You don’t do this because people can get killed. Golf is a very dangerous sport.
Besides dodging crocs and drunk golf cart drivers, a ball to the back of the head is the worst case scenario. Take this series by my brother on the 15th hole.
He hits a very hard shot from the rough. It just so happens to hit a tree that was about 10 feet away. It makes a large gash in the tree as it ricochets 90 degrees to land on the other side of the fairway. He is pissed. He takes his next shot. I don’t know how he did this, but it again went 90 degrees to where he was standing back to where he started. That ball was going a good 300 miles an hour and if I had been next to me, I could have been killed. It was like being in Nam and I’m sure that when I talk to my father, who is a vet, he will agree with my assessment.
I don’t know why, but bad shots are funny as hell to me. I am merciless in my laughter to my brother. That’s when Mr. Dickweed hits another shot over my head. Ok, I’ve about had it.
We go to 18 and finish the round. I go running back to my brother telling him that we need to go, now.
In the final cup, the one where Mr. Dickweed will finish his day, he will find a Titlelist III ball. I hope that I ruined his score and knowing his type, gave himself a penalty stroke.