Kicking Golf, Cold Turkey...

I've heard that the game of golf was invented by a Scotsman.  And you know just how crabby and unkempt and smelly and ill-tempered those Scots can be, right?  I'm thinking it's the tweed fabric they use for their underwear.

Which sort of makes my point.  My Mom once told me about cooking:  "You put good things in, good things gotta' come out."

Yeah, well, the opposite I fear is true.  You put bad stuff in golf, and bad stuff's gotta's come out.  Like my golf score...

Now then, I've reported before on these august pages that I used to shoot a fair game of pool.  Ranked among the Top 50 by Billiards Digest Magazine, I was.  I knew how to play like a champ on a 4' x 8' pool table, or even a 6' x 12' billiard table.  So I was predisposed to believe that I should therefore be able to perform like a champ on a golf course.  

I mean, let's face it.  It's called "Pasture Pool," right?  RIGHT?  

It's a stick and ball game, right?  You take a stick and hit the ball.  The ball then goes in the hole.  It takes one try on a pool table.  It just takes 3 or 5 or 17 tries on a golf course.  That's because the inventor of this infernal game had no gym to go to way back in 18th Century England.  My theory is the inventor needed to get out of the house, and smacking a ball around the forest sounded like a good thing to do.  And overnight a game was born.  And then he discovered that if he removed the trees, it became easier.  And EASIER is the entire focus of and for folks who play this God-forsaken game.  To make it easier.  Farther drives.  Easier putts.  Fewer strokes.  

Wouldn't you think people would want to have MORE strokes, given the arm and leg this friggin' game costs?  But people have been infected by it ever since.  And I'm writing to tell them it's okay to quit.

I did.  And here's how.

First, ask yourself, what's with 15 different clubs?  Just use one club, walk around, preferably with Old Shep, and smack the ball.  If you want to count strokes, do so.  If not, don't.  You'll never be the club pro anyway, so who gives a s*it?  Just go to the closet, stare at your golf bag, and ask yourself:  "Isn't the only reason I go back for more pain and torment is that really good drive on the back 9?"  

Just that one perfect drive is all we remember.  We lost 7 balls, hit a poor woman with an errant drive, shot 99 and broke a driver over your knee.  Just force yourself to realize the feverish fascination with this dummmass game defies all comprehension.  Just accept it as that.  Like methamphetamine.  They are both addictive, and they both cost a lot of money.

Next, ask yourself, "Isn't the only reason you play golf is for the comraderie you enjoy with the boys?   You know, tell dirty jokes and talk about the "strange' they just got.  Wouldn't a Wednesday night poker game be less injurious to your fragile psyche?

And what's with looking this way, but trying to smack the ball THAT way?  It's biomechanically unnatural.  I don't do yoga, with a stick in my hand or not.  And unlike pool, where you're actually looking at what you're shooting at (DUH!), with golf, you're looking over there somewhere and hitting it someplace else.  What the Hell!  That's just plain dumb!  You should use the club like a mallett, as in croquet.  Swing a club between your legs and clock the ball!  You can do it!  Like cricket!  You're overthinking it!  

And about that lowest score.  That just promotes jealousy, fits of anger, nasty comments, unnecessary competitiveness and the need to consume mass quantities of alcohol.  Which makes one drunk.  Or "tipsy," like the Scots would say.  Which makes you play worse.  But try harder.  It's a rabbit hole you're going down, and it ceases to be fun.  

And that's by the 7th hole.

My addiction began, and ended, I should tell you, one fateful day at the local community golf course.  A friend and I (hey, Tom!) decided to buy some Coors, which was illegal in Kansas at the time.  And when we had some, we could give the used set of clubs Tom had just bought at a yard sale a try.  And find out if they were worth the $7.00 he'd paid.  

So we checked in at the clubhouse, rented some shoes, paid our greens fees (which I thought was exhorbitant, even then!), and each got a cart.  Look out world, we were ready to become instant pros! 

It took us each 4 or 5 tries to smack the ball off the first tee box.  While suffering barely stifled chuckles.  What da' Hell?  This don't feel right!  I'm gonna' have to focus!  By the  3rd or 4th hole I was pissed.  So was Tom.  We looked at each other, said what da' Hell, and let loose.  We started smacking back the Coors as we tried smacking the ball.  First a hook, then a slice.  losing balls one after the other.  Wading in the mud, on the cart, off the cart. 

Screw this, I decided.  Maybe racing golf carts would be more fun!  

It was a "CUI" for sure.  "Carting Under the Influence."  Shoulda' been that.  But what it was, was a race!  Tom and I drifted all over the place.  First he had the lead, then I'd pass him.  Up and down this hills, in and out of the tee boxes.  Whooping and hollering.  Using the carts like polo ponies, going full blast as we swung our 5 irons.  Making general asses of ourselves.  But having a really, REALLY good time.  

This golf thing is alright!

That "good time" ended when Tom's cart wound up in a ditch and mine ran out of juice.  Maybe my dislike for electric cars began that very day.  So we walked back to the clubhouse looking for some new carts to destroy.  What we got was an invitation to depart.  As in, "Get the f--k out!"  Imagine being tresspassed from the only public course in town, on your very first try.  One could look at it as a personal failure, for which public condemnation is well deserved.

Or, I prefer to think of it as a personal best and course record, achieved simulfriggintaneously!  First game, last game.  I tried the needle, loved the high, hated the low and never did it again.  And have therefore saved about $680,000 over the course of my storied life.  

See?  Just follow The Chuckmeiter's lead.  Stop playing golf and get a life.  Maybe even take up pool.  Your wife won't leave you and you'll probably save enough to buy a Porsche...