It’s that time of year again: golf season.
Someone once described golf as a walk in the park, ruined. Well, I’ve taken innumerable ruined walks in the park over the last few years, and yet I keep returning, desperately hoping that the results will change, but knowing, deep-down, that they won’t. Ever.
And sure enough, on my first few outings this spring, my drives, powered by a ragged, old man’s swing, rarely extended beyond a majestic 175 yards. Except for the times that I whiffed. (I call those practice swings)
My iron game consists of shanks, worm-burners, and occasional arching shots that land, inextricably, in the thicket far beyond the green.
I lost six balls on one nine-hole stretch last year. I believe that’s a club record.
My putting? Ahhh, my putting. You see, I’ve always believed that anyone can putt. Heck, a six-year-old can putt the ball through the windmill at the miniature golf course, so why should I spend any time on a skill that clearly requires so little….skill. That’s been my philosophy.
So yesterday on the 13th green, I four-putted from 50 feet. On the 14th green, I three-putted from 16 feet. For you non-golfers out there, that’s not good. A man with a blindfold, sitting in a wheel chair, could do better.
So there you have a summation of my golf skills. I’m the whole package.
Oh, I forgot to mention the time last year when I almost overturned my cart on the 16th fairway, or the two times my bag of clubs fell off the cart because I hadn’t fastened the bag tightly enough, or the errant drive that nearly busted a window at the clubhouse, or the time I literally ran out of balls in the middle of a round because I had lost so many in the woods.
Oh, oh! And then there was the round when I lost my pitching wedge and my nine-iron because I had left them on separate greens. And how about the time the clubhead of my four-iron actually separated from the club shaft…and travelled farther than the ball?
I just love the game. By the way, I’m entered in the Alzheimers Invitational next weekend.