I’m threatening to play golf again before the game escapes me forever.
It’s been several years and I really miss the fairways but I have only my lazy bones to blame.
I don’t play golf like most people. I don’t keep score and like to play alone with two balls at once to maximize the experience and keep my inability promptly hidden from the populace.
Some people would call that cheating. I think it just proves I’m a hack golfer, looking for that one shot that will justify the round and hoping that no one but God will watch me play.
It’s also a reflection of my inability to play real golf and the fact that I listened to Clint Eastwood and understand my limitations. Besides, this is a litigious society and when I smack the dimpled ball, danger is involved.
So I play alone for security and liability reasons as well because my shots tend to share fairways with others and you never really know where it’s going once I raise my club.
I have friends who are scratch golfers and they have urged me to keep playing in solitude to avoid injuring innocent duffers and inciting war.
Whenever I do have the displeasure of a round with my old buddies, they sprinkle the morning air with quite nasty remarks about my backswing, follow through and everything in between. The remarks are generally followed by snickering, snorts, chortles and guffaws.
I remind my so-called friends there was a day not too long ago when I could run circles around them in any number of sports.
Never slow to bruise my ego, they generally reply that it was indeed a long time ago, but I am in the present and likely to die if I ever step on a football or softball field again.
“Would you please just shut up and tee off Moller?” is the general tenor.
It is true this is not 1972, but my memory of past glory doesn’t fade easily because that’s all I’ve got left. If I slid into third now the grim reaper would tag me out.
But with golf I can relax, be myself by myself and even be Jack Nicklaus on the green at Augusta if I want, which I’m not, but hey, it puts some fun in the game.
I attempted to learn to play golf when I was young but lacked the patience and experience to get any good at all. I learned to hit the ball straight during a nine-month Washington state hiatus, smacking retread Titleists and Maxflis around on rainy days on some very pretty and inexpensive courses.
I can putt a bit and my short game’s probably the best thing I’ve got going, but I couldn’t drive a golf ball to traffic court.
The ball invariably takes off straight as an arrow and about 100 feet out starts hooking or slicing so madly it bolts into a 90 degree turn and becomes one of my 33 lost balls of the day, or creates a curse from some poor fool over on the next fairway.
So I think I’ll go out and smack a few golf balls around here pretty soon. It’s about the only sport I’ve got left and I need to get some aggression out.
The public is duly forewarned.