My nephew, Chris, is a golf wizard.
He’s not just “good” — he’s great.
Sreiously, he should have one of those sparkly cloaks with moons and suns and a tall pointed hat with a crest of eagles crossed with five irons.
He’s got the Tiger Woods style, nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs personally endorsed by Arnold Palmer or some other wildly famous pro player. He’s also the proud owner of 1,269 small hard, round objects known as golf balls.
He’s got the funky shoes, too.
You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have real bad taste. Then when you turn ’em over they’ve got spikes embedded in the soles.
Sorta’ like a piranha. Yep, piranha shoes, that’s what I call ’em.
Anyway, Chris has all these clubs and the piranha, er, golf shoes, and when he gets the chance he puts his pointy shoes on and spends a Saturday afternoon on the back nine at some golf course.
He diligently takes his clubs and totes them all over creation. He says it’s him against the ball. He says it’s the perfect blend of science and sport. He says it’s fun. He says it’s exercise.
He’s nuts.
Recently, Chris invited me to play.
“Come on, Uncle Scott,” he said. “You’ll have a blast.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I replied. “I know as much about golf as I do the chaos theory of mathematics: And I don’t see a whole lot of difference in the two.”
Chris persisted.
“Aww, come on. You like being outside. Besides we don’t do enough stuff together.”
Ouch. The ol’ “let’s do stuff as a family” argument.
I protested.
I complained.
I tried to weasel out using the standard, “other commitments” argument.
I talked about the three, poor children at home, needing their father.
I helped him pack the car.
We ended up at a very nice local course — that due to the nature of liable laws in this state — shall remain unnamed.
I started watching squirrels; Chris nabbed us a cart.
Then we set off.
Of course Chris didn’t get the nice, turbo-powered cart with the padded seats, air conditioning and CD-AM/FM-radio.
No. Chris might be a great nephew. But he’s real cheap.
Our cart was the golf cart from Hell.
Our cart looked like it had been driven through the back hills of Arkansas by some roadies for an angry country-western band.
Our cart had mud, slime, a couple of dead animals and a real funky smell.
Ours was painted with metallic-flake rust and what I swear were at least two bullet holes.
The seats were stolen from a ’43 Willis Jeep and, just for effect, there were a few empty beer cans, rolling around by my feet.
But the motor worked.
“Heeeeeyyyy Chrissss?” I asked, as I watched my spine bounce in and out of my back. “Wheeeerree aaaarrreee weeee gooooin?”
Chris had reverted to his bumper car days — we dodged the small woodland creatures and those individuals who were unlucky enough to venture in our path.
“Ovvveeeerrr thhhheeerre...” he said, pointing to a lush looking area surrounded by tall trees and lots of people with gold AMEX cards.
“We’re goooooinnnnn to putttttputttt....”
I felt the cart become airborne and then slam back into the well-manicured earth; slowly my spine slowly drifted back into place.
“What? We’re goin’ to Putt Putt?” I smiled. “Now, that’s something’ I can do.”
“No.” Chris said, swerving to avoid a herd of wild squirrels. “We’re going to practice our putting.”
“You practice. I’ll watch.”
The next thing I knew I was holding a putter, resisting the urge to make bad jokes and doing everything humanly possible to knock this tiny fluorescent orange ball into a small hole.
Exactly 47 attempts later, I began to share a few, choice four-letter words with the rest of the assembled crowd.
No one cared.
In fact, a small granny-like woman in $2,000 Nikes (who looked to be about 140- to 150-years-old) had already shouted better, nastier words than I could imagine.
Chris smiled, sank about 50 putts and waited.
I bent my putter.
No, seriously, I really did. But I didn’t do it on purpose.
“Guess you need to work on your swing,” he said.
“Yeah,” I answered. “The porch swing at mom and dad’s house needs a new chain. I’ll get to it right away.”
We finished putting and I urged Chris to think about lunch.
He ignored me and we headed to the first tee.
Now, you have to understand that I know absolutely nothing about golf. And, you have to believe me when I tell you that I really do care about my nephew; and, further, I appreciate him wanting me to hang with him.
But golf? Me? Ain’t gonna’ happen.
Still, we continued. Chris tried to show me how to hold the club and how to stand, “address” the ball and stuff like that.
He failed.
Since it was just the two of us — remember, the gold AMEX people are still putting — we didn’t go by normal PGA rules.
So it took me 112 stokes just to hit the ball. Who’s counting?
But finally, I hit it. Hard — very, very hard.
When my club finally came in contact with that small, round object, I was excited. I hit it. And it sailed through the air just like it was hit by one of those guys on TV.
Right. Hit by one of those guys on TV who was whacked out on crack, or has his head wrapped in plastic, or maybe is seeking to rid the world of small forest creatures.
We never did find that dead squirrel.
But Chris was patient. Heck, he had to be, he’s family. Besides, I was buying lunch.
Still, I was thankful that my feeble attempts didn’t bother him. He kept trying to help; coaxing; offering advice; dodging the stray ball.
After nine holes we decided to call it a day. We walked back to our Conastoga golf cart and began the bone-jarring ride home.
Then Chris introduced me to my favorite part of the sport — the club bar.
A few cold beers later and I felt much better.
One of the club’s more successful players — a handsome, well tanned chap with nuclear white teeth — wanted to know if Chris would like to play next week.
“Oh, bring your father, too.”
“Father? What?”
“Tell you what fellas,” I said, “accidentally” sloshing some of my beer on Mr. Whiteteeth’s perfectly pressed slacks, “have any of you ever heard about the chaos theory of mathematics?”
He’s not just “good” — he’s great.
Sreiously, he should have one of those sparkly cloaks with moons and suns and a tall pointed hat with a crest of eagles crossed with five irons.
He’s got the Tiger Woods style, nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs personally endorsed by Arnold Palmer or some other wildly famous pro player. He’s also the proud owner of 1,269 small hard, round objects known as golf balls.
He’s got the funky shoes, too.
You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have real bad taste. Then when you turn ’em over they’ve got spikes embedded in the soles.
Sorta’ like a piranha. Yep, piranha shoes, that’s what I call ’em.
Anyway, Chris has all these clubs and the piranha, er, golf shoes, and when he gets the chance he puts his pointy shoes on and spends a Saturday afternoon on the back nine at some golf course.
He diligently takes his clubs and totes them all over creation. He says it’s him against the ball. He says it’s the perfect blend of science and sport. He says it’s fun. He says it’s exercise.
He’s nuts.
Recently, Chris invited me to play.
“Come on, Uncle Scott,” he said. “You’ll have a blast.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I replied. “I know as much about golf as I do the chaos theory of mathematics: And I don’t see a whole lot of difference in the two.”
Chris persisted.
“Aww, come on. You like being outside. Besides we don’t do enough stuff together.”
Ouch. The ol’ “let’s do stuff as a family” argument.
I protested.
I complained.
I tried to weasel out using the standard, “other commitments” argument.
I talked about the three, poor children at home, needing their father.
I helped him pack the car.
We ended up at a very nice local course — that due to the nature of liable laws in this state — shall remain unnamed.
I started watching squirrels; Chris nabbed us a cart.
Then we set off.
Of course Chris didn’t get the nice, turbo-powered cart with the padded seats, air conditioning and CD-AM/FM-radio.
No. Chris might be a great nephew. But he’s real cheap.
Our cart was the golf cart from Hell.
Our cart looked like it had been driven through the back hills of Arkansas by some roadies for an angry country-western band.
Our cart had mud, slime, a couple of dead animals and a real funky smell.
Ours was painted with metallic-flake rust and what I swear were at least two bullet holes.
The seats were stolen from a ’43 Willis Jeep and, just for effect, there were a few empty beer cans, rolling around by my feet.
But the motor worked.
“Heeeeeyyyy Chrissss?” I asked, as I watched my spine bounce in and out of my back. “Wheeeerree aaaarrreee weeee gooooin?”
Chris had reverted to his bumper car days — we dodged the small woodland creatures and those individuals who were unlucky enough to venture in our path.
“Ovvveeeerrr thhhheeerre...” he said, pointing to a lush looking area surrounded by tall trees and lots of people with gold AMEX cards.
“We’re goooooinnnnn to putttttputttt....”
I felt the cart become airborne and then slam back into the well-manicured earth; slowly my spine slowly drifted back into place.
“What? We’re goin’ to Putt Putt?” I smiled. “Now, that’s something’ I can do.”
“No.” Chris said, swerving to avoid a herd of wild squirrels. “We’re going to practice our putting.”
“You practice. I’ll watch.”
The next thing I knew I was holding a putter, resisting the urge to make bad jokes and doing everything humanly possible to knock this tiny fluorescent orange ball into a small hole.
Exactly 47 attempts later, I began to share a few, choice four-letter words with the rest of the assembled crowd.
No one cared.
In fact, a small granny-like woman in $2,000 Nikes (who looked to be about 140- to 150-years-old) had already shouted better, nastier words than I could imagine.
Chris smiled, sank about 50 putts and waited.
I bent my putter.
No, seriously, I really did. But I didn’t do it on purpose.
“Guess you need to work on your swing,” he said.
“Yeah,” I answered. “The porch swing at mom and dad’s house needs a new chain. I’ll get to it right away.”
We finished putting and I urged Chris to think about lunch.
He ignored me and we headed to the first tee.
Now, you have to understand that I know absolutely nothing about golf. And, you have to believe me when I tell you that I really do care about my nephew; and, further, I appreciate him wanting me to hang with him.
But golf? Me? Ain’t gonna’ happen.
Still, we continued. Chris tried to show me how to hold the club and how to stand, “address” the ball and stuff like that.
He failed.
Since it was just the two of us — remember, the gold AMEX people are still putting — we didn’t go by normal PGA rules.
So it took me 112 stokes just to hit the ball. Who’s counting?
But finally, I hit it. Hard — very, very hard.
When my club finally came in contact with that small, round object, I was excited. I hit it. And it sailed through the air just like it was hit by one of those guys on TV.
Right. Hit by one of those guys on TV who was whacked out on crack, or has his head wrapped in plastic, or maybe is seeking to rid the world of small forest creatures.
We never did find that dead squirrel.
But Chris was patient. Heck, he had to be, he’s family. Besides, I was buying lunch.
Still, I was thankful that my feeble attempts didn’t bother him. He kept trying to help; coaxing; offering advice; dodging the stray ball.
After nine holes we decided to call it a day. We walked back to our Conastoga golf cart and began the bone-jarring ride home.
Then Chris introduced me to my favorite part of the sport — the club bar.
A few cold beers later and I felt much better.
One of the club’s more successful players — a handsome, well tanned chap with nuclear white teeth — wanted to know if Chris would like to play next week.
“Oh, bring your father, too.”
“Father? What?”
“Tell you what fellas,” I said, “accidentally” sloshing some of my beer on Mr. Whiteteeth’s perfectly pressed slacks, “have any of you ever heard about the chaos theory of mathematics?”
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