Thursday, June 19, 2008

Golf. A verb which here defined means enduring an ancient institution, as old and arbitrary as the donning of neckties, to acquire a new business skill. This sounds cold and clinical, I know, and I wish I could tell you I’ve cultivated an authentic passion for the sport, resplendent and self-sustaining, but I can’t fathom achieving such a state until I’m old and gray. I see myself on a futuristic course, replacement hip propped firmly against my trusty magnicite 5-iron with Mk-III dampening field, regaling the grandchildren with tales of how I once “blogged,” via keyboard, about golfing on earth grass.

You’ll have the post beamed directly to your cortex, obviously, so don’t bother marking your calendar.

I’m no longer that guy on the range, the one who continually sends balls skimming across the ground, and I’m not sure whether I should quietly rejoice or throw a small party or what. It’s an advancement that was independently verified by a small boy at the range yesterday, who declared to his father that my first drive sucked, but that the second swing was “pretty good.” This led to an amicable exchange with the patriarch, then an actual handshake, followed by some fatherly advice about how the $120 he spent on a local tutor saved his golf life. Of course, this was all shortly before his boy began to run amok, interrupting shots and pilfering from my bucket, but that’s neither here nor there, and the hate vibes that kids allegedly interpret so skillfully did their duty, limiting the little bastard’s takings to a single ball.

Now, I’ve come to believe that while the game proper can be a genuine social pursuit, the range itself is uncannily similar to a row of urinals, complete with the attendant urinal culture. The main point is to claim your spot and do your business, you know? I’m not here to share my feelings, or babysit your spawn, or swap recipes, or braid your hair or some such shit. When these unspoken rules are violated, what you get in between the chatter are odd silences punctuated by awkward, self-deprecating grunts upon every ill-conceived hook.

The father eventually left, son in tow, but not without reminding me to contact his mentor. A subtle hint, perhaps, but unbeknownst to him I had tied his self-effacing grunts to their corresponding shots and came to a startling realization: the grunts were right, and whereas he had paid $120 to send the ball to Neverland, my hooks were absolutely free. The current plan is to cull golf tips from friends and Youtube, and I have high hopes. What could possibly go wrong from using hearsay and the Internet to learn a sport?