What a Beautiful Game

I don’t get out much. My normal day usually involves myself watching countless re-runs of Sports Center, playing online solitaire, and reciting the lyrics of the South Park theme song. My daily agenda consists of three words; eat, sleep, and repeat. So when a few of my new buddies called me up to play a fun round of golf yesterday, I said, “Hell, why not?”       What my friends didn’t know, and would soon find out, is that I am one competitive son of a b*tch. I don’t care if we are playing poker, or having a thumb war, I refuse to lose and a temper tantrum would be thrown if necessary.

    I haven’t played golf all year, so I gingerly made my way into my attic in an attempt to retrieve my clubs. After shuffling through old magazines, schoolwork, and pictures of my middle school girlfriend, (what did I see in her anyway?) I finally came across my best friends for the day, my golf clubs.

    As I got into the car, my mouth got the better of me. I started trash talking to my three opponents telling them how they didn’t stand a chance at unseating me from my thrown. I even claimed I was the reincarnation of Bobby Jones and that Phil Mickelson was my half cousin. Thankfully, I was hungry, because I would be eating those words later that afternoon.

    When we arrived at our destination, Indian Creek Golf Club, I noticed that I had zero golf balls to use in my bag. Being the half Jew that I am, of course I wasn’t going to pay for them. I made my way to the driving range in order to satisfy my need for golf balls. I snagged a few of them that were obvious whiffs, but I was not done there. Next thing I knew, I was dodging incoming fastballs that were coming right for my head, Matrix style. I got out of that hazard unharmed, but that was only the beginning of my day.

    It was a great day to golf. Not too hot, not too cool. The grass was freshly cut and the smell of victory was in the air. The club was relatively crowded and we were forced to wait for others to finish on the first hole.

The group in front of us was four men probably in their 60s. They chose to have caddies rather than to take a cart, most likely for the reason that the weather was absolutely perfect.  The foursome was pretty fast moving and got out of our way in no time. Now it was time to get this show on the road.

The first hole was a short, 180 yard par three. The green was small, with sand traps on both sides that seemed to be taunting me as I went into my back swing. My nine iron connected with the practice ball that I risked my life for on the range. That poor ball was never seen again as it went directly into the trees. Thank God for first hole mulligans. My 2nd try at it wasn’t much better, but at least this time it was in play. Into the sand trap I was, and my round was off to a bad start. I saved bogey on the par three, but I was unsatisfied and determined to show my true colors on the hole number two.

On the second tee, I pulled out my shiny driver that had been in my house for almost four years, but seemed to be brand new. I put a good swing on the ball and sent a low screamer around 250 yards to the center of the fairway. A cocky smile appeared on my face as I got back into the cart. The unnecessary smirk may have been my downfall. Less than 100 yards away from the pin on this short par four, I completely sliced the ball way right of the green on my second shot. In fact, I was on the next hole’s fairway. Damn practice balls. After this shot, if you can even call it that, the first of many club throwings took place. The victim of the quarterback- like throw was my useless pitching wedge.

Hole by hole, I kept losing strokes to my rivals, and suddenly I was the victim of the trash talking. “You were right Bobby, Phil Mickelson is your half cousin, and all he taught you was how to choke!” Now I was getting really pissed.

What started out as a phone call asking if I wanted to play a friendly round of golf, has turned into an all out war.

On hole 12, my anger reached an all time high. My tee shot took a bad hop and sat directly in the thick grass on a terrible lie. I took out my black sharpie and wrote “Rosie O’Donnell” on the ball for motivational reasons. My 7 iron was the club of choice and when club met ball, the head of my 7 iron snapped completely off, and traveled 20 yards farther than my ball itself. As my friends laughed in enjoyment, I threw the rest of my club like a Frisbee into the water to my left.

Already mathematically out on the 18th green, I sunk a 20 foot par putt, my first par of the day. Talk about too little, too late. We drove our cart back and packed up our bags. As I sat down in the car, shaking my head in defeat, I could only say one thing.

“So, are you guys up for another round tomorrow?”

Ahh golf; what a beautiful game.

3 replies on “What a Beautiful Game”

golf Good read. Make sure you change 4some to foursome and there are a couple to’s thats should be too’s. I am a decent golfer, but have never made the high school team because the worst players on the team shoot low 80’s. It’s a fun sport that not enough kids play. However, there were a lot of youngsters when I went to Tiger’s Tourney a few weeks ago.

I feel you on this one Golf has been kicking my ass all summer. I just go out there now for that one great shot i’ll hit each round. At least you saved the best for last with the 20-footer, which by next yr. will be a 40-footer, right? 😉

Still, though dude. Range balls? you couldnta sprung for those 3 for a buck “experienced” balls they sell in the pro shop?

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