The Wacky Side of Golf |
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19TH HOLE COMEDY • Today, the blog • Tomorrow, the book |
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DECISIONS, DECISIONS This entry was posted on 11/28/2006 9:34 PM and is filed under uncategorized. Have you been paired with a someone
who says, “I play the blues,” and isn’t talking about BB King’s latest
release? This is usually a case where you mumble, “Sure, that’s
fine with me.”
If you have a caddie, he goes, “Aw, shit. Now I have to walk an extra six hundred yards, rake twenty more traps, and get the same freakin’ nickel and dime tip. This clown isn’t even respectable from the forward tees.” The hike to the first blue tee box is uncharted territory, but you act nonchalant like you’ve been there before. You step up to the markers and take a few practice swings. Meanwhile, the other three players are busy negotiating a million dollars worth of bets. You turn, look down the fairway and nibble your nails, chewing them to the quick when you realize the fairway bunker on the right - - where the longest drive you ever hit in your life from the white tees rolled to a stop after it hit the cart path and bounded forward -- is a drive and a 6-iron from where you’re standing. Take a tip from me: The next time you hear, “We play the blues,” look the guy square in the eye and say, “Rain check!” Then go to a movie. * * * Some day, you will be paired with a golfer who casually asks, “Three a side?” You will think, um, three what? Did he mean three strokes? Three dollars? Three hundred dollars? You don’t want to look stupid, so you simply reply, “Sure.” Sure, my ass! There you are, too intimidated to ask what he meant. Now you’re on the hook, and so flustered you can’t remember the swing tip the pro gave you at the three-day golf school. All you can think about is whether you have a blank check in your wallet so you can pay up after you lose your hat, ass and overcoat. Grab your cell phone and call your banker. Tell him to lock the vault and set the time clocks so the door won’t open until you can gather up the wife and kids and move to Vermont. And have your lawyer get you into a witness protection program. Disappear. * * * Speaking of being paired with strangers, a couple meet in a singles bar. Over drinks, they get to know one another. Before long they find themselves in each other’s arms smooching in a corner booth. It’s love at first sight. They have dinner several times, go to the theater, ball games, movies. They are smitten and can’t get enough of each other. One night, after a passionate love-making session, he holds her in his arms and whispers, “I’m nuts about you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” She says, “I love you too. I feel the same way.” “But, there’s something you need to know,” he confesses -- hoping to break the news gently. “I’m a compulsive golfer, I’m obsessed with the game. I play every day.” “That’s all right, honey,” she whispers breathlessly, “I’m a hooker, and I’m out there every day, too.” He leaps out of bed, pumps his fist in the air and exclaims, “No problem, Margaret, we’ll just play dogleg lefts.” * * * I say there should be a law against adding up a player’s score at the end of the seventeenth hole if the person is playing well. A shot at a new all-time low could be percolating and, if that’s the case, the offender should be sentenced to play 500 holes with three insurance salesmen. No! that’s not enough -- make it three certified life underwriters -- and make it 1,000 holes if the creep says, “You only need a par on eighteen for a new low.” The penalty is warranted. Who can can function under that kind of pressure? I can’t. I always crumble. I drag a dead horse across the finish line every time. Inevitably, I make a double- or triple-bogey and feel like strangling the guy with the pencil. If the scorer says, “Par this hole and you’ll break 40 on this side,” I want to tie my driver in a knot around his neck. Any jury in the world would acquit me. Actually, I try not to be violent. I prefer to step away from the tee, turn to the creep, smile politely and say, “Thank you for the information.” Then I unzip the pocket of my golf bag and remove two old golf balls -- provisionals for the one I know I’m about to hit out-of-bounds and the one that will probably follow it. * * * |
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