A round of strenuous idleness

"Golf is a lot of walking, broken up by disappointment and bad arithmetic."

I must confess that I spilled the beans to my father regarding my entirely inappropriate ‘that’s what she said’ running commentary in my head the other day on the golf course. He actually found it highly amusing and tried to come up with his own examples, some of which I’ll share in a moment.

Now, this is a bit of a journalistic test for me. As I alluded to in that recent review of Plam Poom’s debut album, I used to cover sports for my university’s newspaper, The Tufts Daily. At first I wrote the men’s [American] football notebook (a sidebar to the main article) as well as women’s soccer for the weekly Observer, but then left that rag in a minor protest over the way they edited and butchered my soccer pieces to make them sound more ‘American’. Just two examples that spring to mind: when I wrote something like, ‘a goal was scored from a corner just after the half-hour mark of the match’, it would get changed to ‘a goal was scored from a corner kick with 60 minutes remaining in the game’; and, ‘she terrorised the opponents’ defence with her blistering pace, leaving the central defenders at sixes and sevens’ to ‘she terrorized the opponents’ defense with her speed, leaving the fullbacks very confused’. Forget it, I thought. And took my services to the Tufts Daily.

It was there that I started covering the swimming team, which wasn’t the most thrilling assignment in the world – no offence to swimmers - before being given women’s basketball, which I thoroughly enjoyed. A little while later, I got given one of the plum beats: sailing. I should point out that Tufts, yes, Tufts (!) had one of the top-ranked sailing teams in the country, ahead even of the US Naval Academy. I’m not sure what that says about the state of America’s navy, especially considering all the partying and drinking the Tufts sailing team engaged in.

Anyway, I really got into it, despite not knowing a thing about sailing in the beginning. A few of the sailors took me under their wing, not only patiently explaining all the important lingo, but inviting me to countless sailing parties and somehow ensuring I got home. At least I think they did.

The point of all this is that I’m about to attempt to write about golf, of which I know very little. So bear with me, please. But I’m doing this because I can’t remember the last time I felt this good about my sporting prowess. The last time I was halfway decent at anything, you’ve got to back to my baseball playing days in high school. For those interested, I can even share my stats with you, as pathetic as that sounds. And no, I don’t have to look them up.

“Golf is a good walk spoiled.”
Mark Twain

I’ve never been a huge fan of golf, and that’s putting things mildly. I went through a phase in high school where I played a lot over one summer, but that was really it until I played a round or two with my old man when I was in college. And I hadn’t played since then – except for putt-putt, which I’m addicted to - until this week. And now, suddenly, I’m hooked.

Actually, for purposes of transparency, I ought to come completely clean. My buddy Brad and I used to go up to Lake Winnipesaukee (NH) during the summer and play a lot of putt-putt, hit some balls at the driving range, eat lots of fried clams (that’s what they were calling it in those days), play video games at the arcades, and drink a few beers and then go run little kids off the go-kart course, where we usually got kicked out. Good, clean, innocent fun really.

My father, on the other hand, likes his golf, and though he’s by no means a terrific golfer, he does play from time to time. Definitely a LOT more than me, that’s for certain. When it comes to putt-putt, things are 50-50. With real golf, no comparison. Until the other day, that is.

Our first day out on the course, he beat me by a whopping 17 strokes over 18 holes. The second day featured a slight improvement, where I lost by 14 strokes.

But on the third day? With my uncle along for the fun, and my feisty competitive spirit raging at full speed, I made a dramatic turnaround and won by 3 strokes. Perhaps more impressively, or perhaps not, depending on your perspective, I was ahead by 9 strokes after 15, and luckily staved off a mini-collapse to hang onto the lead. I really felt proud of myself.

But that’s only part of the story. I got par on 5 holes and a birdie on another, where I was a measly 3 inches away from a hole-in-one. And yes, there was a lot of luck involved, but I was consistently landing my first shot on or near the green. In fact, if my putting were better, I could easily have had another birdie and 3 more pars. And yes, I have over-analysed this round to death.

Some elaboration is needed as to why I almost collapsed. On the 15th, I skewed my first shot into some roughage just over the green. Now, it’s hard for me to pinpoint just one weakness in my game, but if I had to choose one, it would be my pitching. I struggle to get any lift on the ball, especially at short distances. Whenever I’m able to get lift, the damn ball goes soaring over 50 yards. At around 20-25 yards from the pin, I needed a perfect chip to land it on the green. I had a small tree blocking my path as well, so I had to also angle my shot to avoid that.

I launched what felt like the perfect shot: just the right amount of lift, perfect direction…it just felt great. For a few seconds, that is. Plonk it went off the tree, ricocheting back past me. Patience is not one of my strong suits, and this is probably why I’ve always struggled with the game of golf. Immediately, I got flustered. Up until this point, it had been my father effing and blinding, accusing me of cheating and employing bad golf etiquette. What a sore loser.

Anyway, this piece of misfortune completely threw me off my game. I bungled the next shot badly, and in a fit of rage, I whacked my next shot over 100 yards away onto another hole’s fairway, nearly decapitating some 250 pound woman in the process. When I shouted my apology, I’m not sure if she gave me a thumbs-up or the bird, it was too far away. Either way I immediately accepted the 6 stroke limit on that hole and gave up.

The final 3 holes weren’t much better. I suddenly lost my confidence, whacking the tee shot on the 16th into the water, and then badly slicing my approach shot on 17, taking the 6 stroke limit on both holes. The 18th was a shade better, but it was a shame that I had lost my groove. Another 2 or 3 holes and in all likelihood I would have lost it.

But no matter, for the important thing is I did win, and boy was my father irate. He’s still fuming, accusing me of every golfing shenanigan in the book. What a sore loser.

I can’t wait to play him again.

Another game I’ve never been much good at - the patience thing again - is chess. I challenged my father to a game earlier, one featuring massive, life-size pieces in the town centre.

And I had checkmate in 4 moves. Has a game of chess every finished more quickly?

Of course, it helped that the poor guy didn’t know the rules, but still, that is impressive.

The ‘that’s what she said’ pantheon

The following comments uttered by yours truly were all followed by my father’s ‘that’s what she said’. You be the judge of whether any of them were appropriate or not. Keep in mind that the poor guy is learning here.

• ‘Damn it, I was 3 inches away from a hole in one!’
• ‘I completely collapsed over the last 4 holes.’
• ‘That’s ridiculous, that shot was heading straight for the hole.’
• ‘Come on, drop, damn it, drop!’

Come to think of it, those aren’t too shabby. I really have to give him a bit more credit.