NOTE: It’s strange, but I’ve received several requests to republish this column. Maybe it’s so those of you who are talented on golf course will have someone to laugh at. Or maybe you just like my column. Nawww, it’s probably the first reason.
My nephew, Chris, is a golf wizard.
He’s not just “good” — he’s great.
Seriously, 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 nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs endorsed by Tiger Woods or some other famous pro player.
He’s got the funky shoes, too.
You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have really 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 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.
My nephew, Chris, is a golf wizard.
He’s not just “good” — he’s great.
Seriously, 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 nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs endorsed by Tiger Woods or some other famous pro player.
He’s got the funky shoes, too.
You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have really 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 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’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 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.”
I protested. I complained. I tried to weasel out using the “other commitments” argument. 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 watched squirrels; Chris nabbed us a cart.
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 really 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 with two bullet holes. The seats were stolen from a ’43 Willis Jeep and, just for effect, there were a few empty beer cans.
But the motor worked.
“Heeeeeyyyy Chrissss?” I asked, as my spine bounced 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 pointed to a lush looking area surrounded by 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 swerved 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 assembled crowd. No one cared. In fact, a small granny-like woman in $2,000 Nikes (who looked to be about 140-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. 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.
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?”
Recently, Chris invited me to play. “Come on, Uncle Scott,” he said. “You’ll have a blast.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. 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.”
I protested. I complained. I tried to weasel out using the “other commitments” argument. 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 watched squirrels; Chris nabbed us a cart.
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 really 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 with two bullet holes. The seats were stolen from a ’43 Willis Jeep and, just for effect, there were a few empty beer cans.
But the motor worked.
“Heeeeeyyyy Chrissss?” I asked, as my spine bounced 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 pointed to a lush looking area surrounded by 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 swerved 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 assembled crowd. No one cared. In fact, a small granny-like woman in $2,000 Nikes (who looked to be about 140-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. 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.
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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