Golf: The Antidote to Joy (Part 2)

Continued From Part 1

I don’t know if you’ve had the opportunity to watch the same unchanging patch of earth for six uninterrupted hours, but let me be the first to recommend it to you. Nothing else I’ve tried has done so much for my sense of spiritual and emotional balance. After an experience like this, you can say to yourself “Okay, that was the most desperately empty and cheerless episode in my now seemingly worthless life, I guess I’m due for an amazing streak of happiness and good fortune!” I’m still waiting.

At this point some well-meaning readers may be thinking “Well, Josh, what about the prospect of someone hitting a hole-in-one?” I assure you this was never considered even remotely possible.

To be fair, I was not always alone. Every hour or so a new quartet of portly putters would waddle by and ask if I’d seen where their drives had landed. They knew full well that they hadn’t made it within 500 yards of the green, but each acted surprised when I pointed to some spot behind the food tent or the maintenance shed. Occasionally they would address me personally. The exchange was usually something like this:

Man in Garish Clothes: Hey, Boss. You guardin’ that $5000?
Me: Um, I suppose in theory I – well, no, not really.
MIGC: Did you see how close my buddy came to the hole, Big Guy?
Me: I sure did. It’s alright. It’s just a game isn’t it?
MIGC: You’re gonna give it to us, right Chief?
Me: Excuse me?
MIGC: C’mon, that was so close! Give us a break, Sport!
Me: [feigns a stroke and lies motionless until golfers depart]

There was a certain measure of relief in the knowledge that my intense hole-watching had reduced the likelihood of catching even a glimpse of men playing golf, a sight which has been known to paralyze. Even a cursory glance at a man lining up a drive has been lab tested to retard and even reverse neural development.

I do have a question for men who golf. Why a hundred and forty seven practice swings? I would understand one or two, but every player I’ve observed takes exactly one hundred and forty seven practice swings before a tee off. Is it superstition? A test of endurance? An affirmation of life? Some kind of sexual presentation? Or do you just hate me?

By the time each player has teed off, recovered their Titleist, and inconspicuously dropped it back-handed onto the green, not only have three more teams accumulated at the tee, but nature itself seems weary. The trees and rocks have witnessed geological evolution that seems speedy by comparison.

There is a curious practice when a golfer finally finds himself on the green. He will putt until the ball is within a foot of the hole and then triumphantly snatch it up, assuming victory. On the surface this may seem reasonable, but it’s really quite audacious when one considers the utter incompetence the player has exhibited up to this point. Something as negligible as tapping a ball nine inches into a hole may be just what he needs to prove himself.

At the end of the day, I suppose I can’t complain. Oh wait, sure I can. I wasted a whole day staring at a hole, trying desperately to avoid looking up and into the void of human weakness. Between that and a trip to Hell in a golf cart, I guess I really can complain quite a bit. Hmm, this changes everything…