Tim Tries Golfing; Mediocrity Ensues

Every year, my father signs up a foursome to play in a charity golf tournament and every year it is the first time I touch my clubs. Not this year. This year, I will be a finely tuned golf machine. I will not be the weak link.

That being said, I will probably be the weak link. I have always considered myself a halfway decent athlete, but I've come to realize that's very relative. Here's the combined resume of the guys I know:

• There are 4 former college football players
• One of them was Division 1AA
• One of them has the interception record at his college
• There are 3 former Division 1 hockey players
• 2 of them play professionally now
• One of them rowed crew for one semester at the Division 3 level

Alright, that last one was me. I got my membership in the N.C.A.A. and then called it a career after one season (those fuckers get up early). The point is, despite making the single most important play in the history of Marlborough High School Junior Varsity football,* it's easy to be intimidated by that group. So, I wanted to get out and practice a little first. I headed to Quincy to play at a course we will call "Commander in Chief's." (If you can't figure this out, this blog is too much for you. This one is more your speed.)

I had to be the only one listening to Jay-Z while rolling up to the course. I sheepishly put my windows up so I didn't spook the geriatric locals. After unloading my clubs I worked my way up to the club house to talk to one of the crankiest men in the world. And I do not make that last statement lightly. I know cranky.

He greeted me with a disinterested "Yeah?" I pondered for a minute what this man thought I could possibly want. "Yes sir. My troop is trying to raise money to go to space camp and I wanted to know if you wanted to buy some cookies."

I'm in a borrowed polo shirt and golf shoes: why do you think I'm here, dickhead? Yeah, I know the camo cargo shorts were a bad touch and God knows I don't like them either but they're the only shorts I own. I told him I was going to play eighteen (in the best Stephanie Tanner "no duh" voice I could muster). He answered with a gruff, "it could be a while." But he said it like a question. Like, "I'm gonna make you wait so long that you should probably just pack up the camo cargos and get the fuck out of here."

That's it, asshole. To paraphrase The Rolling Stones: wild horses being ridden by Victoria's Secret models holding bowls of ice cream couldn't drag me away. I am going to play the shit out of this course. I might not even replace a couple divots. Take that, bitch. By the way, your course is not nearly nice enough for you to be such a prick.

I said none of this but I think my expression conveyed the sentiment. I went out to the practice green and immediately saw an old man wearing jeans and a young kid wearing wind pants. I walked in the camo cargos with a little more pride after that. After putting on a horrendous display of short game I was called to join three other guys on the first tee.

I wish I could say something dramatic happened like I shot a 75 (is that even good?) or that I went all "Tin Cup" on the eighteenth and put it in the hole from the fairway on my fourteenth shot. But it was just a normal round of golf. There were good shots. There were bad shots. I was happy. I was mad. I hate this God damn game. I can't wait to play again.

At the very least, I don't think I'll be embarrassed on Saturday at the tournament. Especially once I can toss out the camo cargos in favor of my new golf pants:

*I defy anybody to dispute this.



Subscribe to Functioning Rageaholic by Email