Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Bad Golf

Sometimes, bad golf takes over; and everyone in the group with which I played last Saturday, in this case, two threesomes (which adds up to six for the uninitiated), did not play well.

As an aside, I wonder why golf announcers, who pretend they are journalists and, therefore, should have a more-than-tenuous grasp on the English language, whisper, "Oh, he hit that one good," or "She is not scoring as good as she should be." Doesn't a producer whisper in the earpiece, as Don Pardo did on the game show, Password, "The password is 'well.'"

And while I am on the subject of watching golf on television, I may as well defend it. There is a "sport" a tad more of a bore than golf -- it could be going around and around the track racing autos, but it's not because there's a chance of a fiery crash or a bumping, sideswiping photo finish, the drivers getting into a fight just like hockey. No, it's not auto racing on oval tracks.

Poker.

I noticed that all the players wear sunglasses and presidents' masks, so that nobody can figure out what pupillary responses and facial tics might be important. At the very least, they should give the six-shooters back to the players, then there will be a chance one of the players will go berserk and start blasting away. But as it is played now, I consider it the most boring thing on television. It probably cures late-night insomnia. And it is on just about every channel of the cable TV spectrum at some time during the day, saturating the airwaves with poker 24 hours a day every day of the week. Of course, it's likely that I am all wrong about poker on TV; and, as I write this, there are people crowded around a TV in Gomer, Ohio, cheering on their favorite, screaming for him to hold ... or shoot the fucker on the other side of the table.

It was sunny on Saturday morning, and I stood on the teeing ground of the fourth hole. A creek cuts across the fairway -- it's a little creek at the bottom of a fifty foot ravine -- anyway, it crosses the fairway. You don't need to really know how far from the teeing area that creek is located unless you really want to embarrass me. I never had occasion to measure how close it is to the tee because it's right there, not very far; but that's where my first shot landed. So, I teed up another one rather than take a few steps to the end of the teeing area and hit from there.

An intersecting creek meanders along the left side of the fourth hole. I won't say that it is along the left side of the fairway because it's way, way off to the left in terms of golf distance. So, I hooked one into that chasm. Now, the tee shot was supposed to be a lay-up shot with a 4-iron of about 210 or 220 yards before pounding one over the lake, then hitting a short shot to the two-tiered slightly elevated green, which is tucked away in a copse of trees. I found my ball, but I did not want to kill myself or get poison ivy by trying to retrieve it from the creek bed below. The Titleist executives like that -- more golf ball sales.

Before finding my ball, I had walked down the expanse of short-cropped, green fairway grass with the other two golfers in my threesome. That isn't an entirely accurate description, however. They walked over that way to the right about forty yards away. I got the impression that they were afraid to be near me at that point, leaving me to stroll along, heading through the longer, browning grass of the rough toward the creek. I wasn't muttering to myself or throwing clubs. I was wondering what the hell was happening on such a beautiful morning and figuring that I might be able to get a seven on the hole if I hit a left-bending, 3-metal shot over the lake, a short pitch to the green with one putt. Or an eight, if I needed two putts. I'd be happy with an eight.

My golf friends didn't know what I was thinking; otherwise, they might have decided to walk with me, instead of letting me walk alone, carrying my Peter Jacobsen model retro leather golf bag that I got about ten years ago. When I saw my ball at the bottom of the creek bed, I dropped my bag to the ground and unzipped the pocket that held my stock of golf balls. Four.

I have known golfers, my father among that number, who have big, huge professional-style golf bags with 38 pockets. They carry a couple dozen or more golf balls. I could never figure out why they did that. How many golf balls does one need for a Saturday morning stroll on a golf course? With the four Titleist golf balls in that pocket of my bag were a couple of other items, a small leather bag with some golf tees and a couple ball mark repair thingys, into which I put my wallet, my keys, and my cell phone, and a stick of Water Babies sunscreen (It's 30 pdf or whatever letters they use to denote whatever it is that they think is important -- and whether or not it works, I do put it on before starting to play.). There's a spike wrench with a red handle and a blue permanent marker, which is to put a mark on my golf balls so that I know which is mine. There's another pocket -- in that one, I keep a baseball cap; and I was wearing that.

So, I dropped a brand new ball -- not in accordance with the Rules of Golf. I just kind of threw it down, not like I was angry, just exasperated, but determined to get my seven or eight. Mind over matter. Good attitude. Golf psychology.

Aaaah, that's a bunch of bullshit; don't believe it. I hit the 3-metal about a mile in the air and none too far. "Not gonna make it, Billy," Greg pointed out to me, as the new ball splashed into the lake. I knew that when I hit it, and no sudden gust of wind or force of my will could change the course of that Titleist (with one blue dot on each side of the black "4" underneath the script "Titleist" on the ball); and the next one I hit wasn't dead solid, but I struck it well enough to clear the lake.

So, there I stood in the middle of the fairway, wondering why I woke up so early in the morning to walk the dogs and then drive out here. I felt as though I was playing with Dick Cheney -- torture. I pulled my pitching wedge from my bag and, after going through all the wiggle-waggles and lining-up shit that is supposed to help, according to all the golf experts, I hit a high, arching shot off to the right a little that hit the downslope of the elevated part of the green and bounced farther to the right into high grass.

I hacked at the ball, and it rolled past the hole, picking up speed at a rate that breached all laws of Physics, and finally stopped when it reached higher grass off of the other side of the green. In former days, I might have thrown a club and most certainly would have used the word "fuck" in all its variations; but I, because I have matured, you see, used the word only two or three times in rather benign combinations. And realizing that I had totally fucked up my score for the entire round, I stepped up to my fucking ball and, without all of the machinations that are recommended by golf experts planet-wide, chipped it up to about three inches left of the flagstick. And Greg hit the ball back to me, giving me the putt, for an 11.

11.

But it was a beautiful morning for a quiet walk out of doors with a few friends. And in the middle of January, I will yearn to play bad golf.

Posted by Bill at July 6, 2007 01:58 PM