Thursday, August 7, 2008

There I was, standing on the fairway under a darkening sky, wondering whether any scenario existed in which it’d be intelligent to wave shards of metal around as lightning loomed nigh. I didn’t have much time to ruminate on this, however, because my thoughts promptly turned to what would happen if I were electrified mid-swing, and how depressing it’d be to die on a golf course playing the sport I hate most. The best thing to do in this case would be to float me out onto a water trap in a burning rowboat, trusty 7-iron laid across my chest, in the style befitting Viking lords.

Tonight was my second golf outing, and whereas the first time was an unmitigated disaster, these 18 holes were slightly better. Let’s call it a local crisis, then. Folk wisdom says the amateur golfer can traverse the godforsaken wasteland in about 100 strokes. This round clocked in somewhere around 150 to 175, so you can only imagine how I performed previously. It occurred to me this was the textbook case of doing something for its own sake rather than for some purpose. If I were learning golf for enjoyment, the equity of blood and sweat would be willingly invested, not extracted.

I’m in too deep now to quit, though, and to this end I’ve established some short-term goals. First, always drive past the women’s tee box. Second, get half my shots into the air. And finally, arguably most importantly, to refrain from shouting expletives that rhyme with “fuck” whenever I trade my Tiger for Farmer Fitzgibbons and begin harvesting the grass with my 5-wood.