golf.htm

Golf

"You see a lot of pros out on the course wearing baseball caps with company logos on them. They get paid a lot of money to wear these caps. You, my friend, are no pro and the wind catches the bill and moves your head as you line up and putt. For gawd's sake, man, take
off the cap, sink the putt, and get in early for a pint."
-- David Faherty

For reasons known only to himself, George Carlin hated the sport. Mark Twain noted that golf is the perfect way to screw up an otherwise pleasant walk. Golf commentator, David Faherty suggests that golf is the second most expensive sport in the world, second only to yachting. Why and how does an otherwise reasonable person get involved in this sport? I've got a few guesses. Pop a cold one. Here we go.

Promotion:
Worldwide, but particularly in the U.S., golf has done an incredible job of promoting itself. Every advertiser out there wants to buy into the action. Why? Because the USGA, PGA, etc. have largely defined professional golf as a charitable activity. Corporate sponsors can write the off the costs of advertising or tournament sponsorship, all the while generating untold amounts of good will. For paltry sums of four thousand to twenty-five thousand dollars individuals can play a round with the touring pros on Mondays of tourney week, then write it off as a contribution to an area hospital, a youth leadership camp, or whatever. Good for golf, I say! I'd sure as hell rather have golf distribute my money than let the IRS get it.

Baseball and football can't do this. Nobody's going to pay to have "The Bird" stick a 96 mph fastball under his chin. That causes urine to trickle down your legs. Who's going to lay out five grand to let Ronnie Lott stick his helmet in your back? That causes blood in the urine that's trickling down your legs. Auto racing? Sure. You're gonna do 188 mph in what amounts to a rocket-powered beer can with a stranger's front bumper tucked under your skirt. Golf's got a unique niche.

The hook:
This brings us to one of golf's biggest hooks, tv. When the uninitiated see the tv game, two things seem apparent--it's a simple game, and it's easy to play. There's not an element of truth in those observations, but the tv watcher doesn't know that. So, off he goes to the local golf course, rents a set of clubs, pays three times more than the MSRP for a sleeve of balls (three; he'll just save the other two for next time), and voilà, instant golfer.

Five swings later, the newbie has yet to clear the tee box. He allows the following group to play through, watches their swings to pick up some tips, and hears mutterings from the departing foursome like, "Didn't get it all. Maybe 290." Maybe 226. Reinvigorated, the new guy returns to the tee box. He carefully emulates the swings of the preceding foursome. Five cuts later, he's still in the tee box. "Tch! Tch!, " as Brad Faxon would say.

Formulating a new strategy, the newbie selects another club, and with one mighty swing sends the ball flying twenty-two yards down the fairway. Seven swings and three hundred nine yards later he reaches the green, but overshoots it. "Dang it," as Phil Mickelson would say.

Our new guy locates his ball in a sand trap behind the green. Selecting a sand wedge (he saw this done on tv) he swings and catches the ball thin. The ball rockets over the green and half way back down the fairway. "God dammit! Fuck!" as Tiger often says.

Seventeen more holes and six and a half more hours of this mindless brutality later, the newbie staggers into the clubhouse. There, the real horror begins--he's about to meet the PGA Pro.

The PGA Pro:
Every activity in the universe creates waste, and civilized beings possessed of the power observation have for eons noted that nature deals with waste. Golf, at some levels, is comprised of civilized beings, and has noted nature's method of dealing with road kills--vultures. Golf created the PGA Pro.

If you've ever been to a golf course, you've met him. He's the character behind the cash register with the expressionless face and the dull, dead eyes. You were immediately taken with his mime-like mannerisms. He didn't say, "Hi." He didn't ask if you've got a tee time. He didn't volunteer the prices of goods or services. He just keyed stuff into the cash register. If you forced him to speak, he did not direct his response to you; he mumbled directly into the cash register.

Don't be fooled by what you think you've seen. The PGA has trained this zombieesque creature like a sentry dog. Lurking in the shadows of those lifeless eyes, exists a sinister recorder of all your important attributes: $35.00 polo shirt (trashy); blue jeans (needs $90.00 shorts); unlogoed ball cap and socks (Uggh!); both hands tanned (rookie); lack of sneer and no swagger in walk (a sure-as-hell rookie); rented clubs ("Mark! Pull!").

After beating himself up for half a day, a golfer is as helpless as a coed who's swilled a pint of tequila. The PGA pro recognizes this condition as readily as an emergency room physician recognizes a burn victim. One word of encouragement, one excuse to quit flailing himself, and the golfer is on his back, knees spread.

Working on his fifth $4.00 clubhouse beer, the golfer notices a cherubic figure leaning on the bar a few feet away. The guy looks familiar, sorta like the PGA pro, except with that new driver tucked in the crook of his arm, it could be Maurice Chevalier; maybe Bob Hope. Whoever the guy is, he's a sure-enough talkative sumbitch.

With an incredulous, but supportive smile on his face, the pro querys, "Rough round?"

"Rough?" responds the rookie golfer. "I feel like I've been dry-shaved and pistol-whipped. This isn't the sport for me."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I remember you. You rented clubs. That rental stuff goes through a lot of abuse. It loses that snap that you see when you watch Tiger."

The newbie's eyes drift to the pro's driver as the chorus of a German opera resounds in his mind: "You can buy a game! You can buy a game!" Reflexively, the golfer turns over the price tag on the driver. Jeezis H. Cristo--$599.00! The newbie's flinch is unmistakable, but the pro is perfectly prepared for that.

"Don't pay any attention to the price tag. That's the non-member price. Take your time. Think about it. If you're really interested, I can discount this club . . . significantly."

The rookie pops the clutch on his brain's financial lobe: ". . . cash is short, but I haven't used this credit card in a while. You know what they say, 'Use it, or lose it.' You never know, an active credit card is handy to have in an emergency . . . and the kid is nine years old. He can get a paper route and pay for his own dental work. That'll help him later in life."

The mental grindings are interrupted by the pro who volunteers, " . . . of course, the more athletic types often derive more benefit from private lessons than new equipment. But don't let any of this stuff interfere with your training at the health club. Boy, I'm envious of you guys' discipline."

Did you hear the hook set? A $900.00 annual club membership (you have the privilege of participating Tuesday evening, Thursday evening, and Saturday morning tournaments, while only having to pay for the use of a cart; not to mention those merchandise discounts), that driver, a $450.00 set of used Knight irons ("Pristine. The guy who had these really took care of 'em."), a logoed cart bag, sundry expendables like tees, gloves, and balls, and a contract for a dozen private lessons later, the vulture has rid the clubhouse of its waste.

Ferchissake, the game's tough enough

There are distractions in golf. Some are tolerable. Some not. For instance, the beverage cart girls can really be distracting. They (1) know an easy mark when they see one (a two-dollar beer nets a three-dollar tip), or (2) don't realize that old guys aren't that trustworthy (I'm doing four concurrent paroles for assault with a dead weapon). But this is a tolerable distraction. If fact, paying that extra twenty dollars for a greens' fee is charitable: I'm helping a coed through college.

I blame Tiger Woods for the most egregious distraction, slow play. Without a doubt, Tiger is the best of the modern-day players. Perhaps the best "scrambler" in history; certainly the best putter I've ever seen. Partly because he's almost always in the final pairing--therefore, being slowed by preceding groups--and largely because the PGA refuses to put a playclock on his slightly Hawiian, mostly Zulu ass, Tiger's slow play has set an example that has ruined play on all the municipal golf courses.

Firstly, his relatives are showing up everywhere. Just like back in the 'hood, they're walkin' proud, talkin' loud, and drawin' a crowd. In fact, they are their own crowd. They come in van caravans. Groups of twenty or thirty. They start a round as foursomes, but once out of sight of the clubhouse they play in groups of twelve to fifteen. They bring their pit bulls and bar-b-que pits. The side pockets of their equipment bags are filled with malt liquor. Just like on the basketball courts back in the 'hood, they play without the encumbrance of rules. It averages about seven and one-half hours for them to complete a round of golf. Pity anyone playing behind the tribes. Playing through a tribe requires that you skip five or six holes.

Then, there's the old white guy--oblivious to his surroundings; a curse upon the sport. Talk about the anguish of playing behind thirty spear chuckers, a foursome of old white guys can leave a golf course fucked up like a tennis helmet. To these sumbitches golf is neither a sport nor an activity. A round of golf is a career.

Starting early in the morning to "beat the heat," they stand on the first tee box discussing what? for several minutes. Slowly, they shuffle back to their carts, get a slug of coffee, grab their drivers, and amble back to the tee box. Afterwhich, a mini argument about the hitting order follows. When the argument ends and the order is settled, they each take a cut at the ball with their drivers. All these shots result in lost or topped balls, so, experienced golfers that they are, they declare "Mulligans," shuffle back to their carts to exchange their drivers for shorter clubs, amble back to the tee box, and hit again. These cuts usually leave their tee shots from 115 to 140 yards out from the tee box, and as following groups stack up behind them, they slowly progress, 80 to 100 yards at a time, toward the first green.

Ah, the green! If the first twenty-two minutes of this drama seemed slow, take a hit of Demerol, knock back a shot of Jack, and pull up a La-Z-Boy. Consider this: Hale Irwin is a senior. Hale Irwin can still drive the ball over 300 yards. Hale Irwin can still hit his sand wedge 150 yards. Hale Irwin doesn't play any more. Why not? Hale Irwin can't putt anymore . . . because, at his age, he can't see. Hale Irwin's caddy doesn't pull the flag stick; he hangs a fuckin' bell on it. Hale Irwin putts at the sound.

But these crusty-assed old bastards in front of you are about to go into their act. They have seen Tiger take inordinate time reading a putt, so they are going to do the same. Mind you, now, these paragons of dementia can't even see the God damned green, but they're going to act like they're actually reading it. And, apparently, there is an unwritten rule which, after a golfer reaches a certain age, allows only one golfer on the green at a time. So one by one they walk around the green looking at the balls, trying to determine which is their ball. Each one claims a ball, walks on to the green, slowly bends to pick up the ball, marks its spot with a coin, then retreats to the fringe of the green. This drama is then replayed by each of the other three "players." Once all four are in position--left hand on hip; leaning on putter shaft held against right thigh--a discussion begins about who is "out." Once the "out" argument has been settled, activity resumes. Sorta.

The golfer who is "out," now, and only now, begins to assess the putt he must make. He looks at the predicament with the ball between him and the hole. He looks at the predicament with the hole between him and the ball. He looks at the putt from each side. Mindful of the barometric pressure, he reads the grain of the grass. He gathers all this data, crunches it, extrapolates an interpolation, interpolates an extrapolation, props his fly-blowin' ass up by the ball, and is now ready to make his stroke. Talking among (perhaps to) themselves, and having slipped the surly bonds of reality, the others in the foursome hardly notice when our boy slaps the 19 foot putt 12 feet past the hole. If the guy who just putted is no longer "out," he retreats to the fringe of the green, places his left hand on his hip, and leans on his putter. The old fart who is now "out," now, and only now, begins to assess the putt he must . . . well, you get the idea. After twelve of these cameo performances, the last putts are declared "gimmes," and the drama is over . . . well, not quite. Standing at the green's edge, each of the players marks his scorecard. The scorecards are then passed among the other players for approval. The sun is now directly overhead.

Allow me to interject something of a personal nature, if you would. I watch amazed at these geezers. They talk incessantly. I am a college graduate. It took me five years to get a four year degree because I was getting laid almost at will. I've been married three times. I've served in a war. I've searched vehicles, buildings, and persons for explosives on three continents. I was a very successful football coach, and I've coached kids baseball teams to state championships. I've fished and hunted on two continents. I've ridden, and still ride, motorcycles for more than a half century. I've owned and operated several businesses. I've been jailed in towns you can't pronounce. Having said all that, if you put a gun to my head, I couldn't come up with twenty minutes of stuff to talk about. What can these old douche bags possibly have to say? Most of them married cousins and have never left the county of their birth. Try this: go home and talk to your husband/wife for five-and-a-half hours. I guarantee you'll be divorced in a week.

Where are Tiger's bros when you really need them? Pass out the Uzis. Set the pit bulls free. Old white guys? To hell with 'em. Let's roll. Drivebys from golf carts? You bet your ass!

(more to come)