Monday, June 12, 2006

 

A Good Walk Spoiled

Because life wasn’t challenging enough, I have decided to take up the fine sport of golf. Don’t get me wrong, I have been around golf all my life. In fact, my dad was on the golf course broadcasting a tournament when I was born. (You better believe I get a lot of guilt mileage out of that one.) But I’ve never really taken up the game.

Growing up, I already had my three favorite things on the golf course: driving the cart, putting a few balls in on each hole, and getting Shirley Temples from the Men’s Grill (to go, of course). I was told I had a great swing. Unfortunately, I also had the attention span of a toddler. My eyes were already looking down the fairway before I finished my backswing. This almost always meant I missed the ball. That’s okay, though. 10 golfballs could keep me occupied for an hour.

When I was an intern, I took a few lessons – 3 to be exact. I probably went to the range about 5 or 6 times, and never played a round. Then I started dating Ah-sweep-ay. I would go to the range with him from time to time. I showed some promise (I guess), so he encouraged me. At first, this was awesome. I learned a little, I got a set of golf clubs for Christmas, and we now had a reason to take warmweather vacations (it was either that or snowboard Peru in July).



Unfortunately, it turned out I still had the attention span of a toddler. Combine this with the fact that Ah-sweep-ay took the game WAY TOO SERIOUSLY, and golf was suddenly not so much fun anymore. Everytime we went to the range, my unfulfilled potential would taunt and taunt him until he just couldn’t control himself. He had to provide “constructive criticism” on every swing I made. When I hit a good shot, he’d say, “That’s how they should all be.” I began to have fantasies of chasing him across the range with my club high over head screaming, “You wanna see a backswing? I got your fucking backswing!” I settled for a piercing look that would shut him up for about 5 strokes. Then, with the next unsolicited “tip”, I’d storm off to the bar.

This un-fun-ness culminated in a golf trip to Mexico. We drove over the border to a resort just South of Rosarita. The first day showed some promise as we ate lobster in a small village and drank lethal cocktails out of coconuts. Unfortunately, the Coco-Locos left me a little sluggish the next morning. This meant that we did not get to the driving range A FULL HOUR AHEAD OF TIME to warm up. What? This is golf, not the fucking Olympic marathon. At this point I was about to perform an unnatural act on another human being with a 9-iron. But the heat was deflected by the nice young Mexican man at the pro shop who couldn’t find our start time. After setting Mexican-American relations back a few decades, Ah-sweep-ay proceeded to have an appalling round of golf made worse by my constant refrain of “Where’s the bar cart? Isn’t there a beer girl in a golf cart?” Serves the fucker right.

So I stopped playing for awhile. But now I’m back. And I think I'll get really good this time, just for spite. See, I find spite to be one of the worlds best motivators. Now, where is that bar cart?

Comments:
Spite is indeed a good motivator!

I come from a family full of golfers, but have never managed to take any interest in it much beyond putt-putt courses.
 
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