September 30, 2004

Bad golf game par for the course

By
Herald Editor

      Woods, water and weeds are all par for the course when it comes to golf. After all, my tee shot often hits all three.
      This past weekend I dusted off my driver, stocked up on x-out Titleists and hit the links after a three year self-imposed hiatus. The results were as predictable as Phil Mickelson Ryder Cup punch lines. Let's just say if I drove the golf cart like my Titleist, I'd be in jail for hit-and-run with an oak.
      Golf is not my bag. While others claim a numerical handicap, I have a stance, backswing and follow-through. I'm the complete package - a topper, duffer and hacker all in one set of spiked shoes. My slice can actually cut through a Ginsu Knife.
      Luckily, I'm not a shower curtain ring salesman conducting business out on the course. If that were the case, I'd be the Willy Loman of the back nine.
      My father introduced me to the game where the ball lies poorly and the player well. An avid golfer, the license plate on his Buick LeSabre read 7 IRON. His Christmas gifts rarely ventured outside the realm of dogs playing golf ties or exploding golf balls.
      It was dad that provided my first golf club - a broken 3-wood. Somehow dad snapped the club shaft (perhaps over his knee) down to my seven-year-old stature. While the club bore a new grip, I never grasped the nuances of the game. I even took the token driving range lesson. You know the one with the curmudgeonly golf pro who hangs out at the 19th hole sipping Canada Dry, recounting skins games played for the Maltese Falcon against the likes of Walter Hagan.
      For awhile I played on the high school golf team. Well, more like after-school club for Caddyshack extras. After all, most "teams" don't fish out golf balls from water hazards wearing snorkel masks and fins.
      Once upon a time, I would get teed off about a bad tee shot. I'd curse my bad luck with four-letter shouts - the word fore not being one of them. Today, however, I'm much more laid back about a bad game. I don't even use a #2 pencil to shade my score when the 9-iron fails me.
      Typically, a round of 18 is played out in the following fashion:
      - Tee shot: Thirteen perfect practice swings, one bad whiff. Mulligan. Tap one just past the women's tee box.
      - Second shot: 200 yard blast with 80 degree slice landing three fairways over.
      - Third shot: 15-yard topper in front of foursome leaning on gold inlaid plutonium metal woods.
      - Fourth shot: 20-yard topper in front of foursome leaning on gold inlaid plutonium metal woods.
      - Fifth shot: Long iron shot lands five feet from the green. Scratch head, lose perfect hand position on club.
      - Sixth shot: Blow chip shot wide right worse than Scott Norwood.
      - Seventh shot: Line up putt using Archimedes' integral calculus.
      - Eighth shot: Putt from two feet closer.
      - Ninth shot: Picture putting past windmill and into clown's nose. Sink 20-footer for quadruple boogie
      Thankfully, I have an uncanny ability to find forsaken golf balls. I'm at my best out-of-bounds, whether it's high grass or low hanging tree limbs. While I rarely find my original quarry, I bag other lost golf balls. Kind of like a communal pro shop for fairway-challenged duffers.
      Mark Twain called the game of golf a good walk spoiled. With woods, water and weeds lurking around the next dogleg, losing your sense of humorist - not to mention Titleist - can be par for the course.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com