An Exercise In Futility...

I have always considered myself to be a pretty good athlete. Although at my current very late middle age status, my previous athletic abilities and prowess have admittedly eroded noticeably. Gone are the days when I could play tournament softball or competitive basketball for hours on end. Staying in shape for me now basically involves not becoming so rotund that I roll off the couch as I flip constantly through the various sports channels. Still, I cling to the fantasy that not all of my inbred athletic genes have opted for permanent retirement. Thus, I still chase the illusion that I can be a pretty good golfer. Based on my performance on the golf links this past Labor Day weekend, I do not seem to be narrowing the gap between illusion and reality. Bottom line...I suck at golf!

If I were among alien beings who happened to land their space craft on a municipal golf course, aside from the fact that they would be scratching their collective pointed heads trying to figure out what these humans were attempting to accomplish by smacking a little white spheroid around with a metal club, their combined intellect might conclude "How hard can it be?" Well, let them haul their frail little spindly bodies out of their space vehicles and give it whack! As for me I'm still trying to grasp why I find it ever increasingly difficult to place an immovable object on an elevated perch and still manage to consistently fail to smack the crap out of it with a very large, globe like mallet! It would be different if the ball was bouncing around like water pellets on a hot skillet. But it just sits there and I hack at it as though I am trying to kill a basketful of snakes! Frustrating doesn't come close to expressing my utter exasperation. Although taking a dull butter knife to my wrists comes close!

Someone once said that they named the game "golf" because all the other less flattering, descriptive and profane names were already spoken for. After this past weekend let me assure you that there were few if any remaining disparaging labels which I did not pronounce at the top of my lungs. On Friday I posted a score of 101. The course had set "par" at 72. I was obviously a whopping 29 strokes above that mark of acceptability. Displeased but undaunted I vowed to do better. The opportunity to do so arrived on Monday. I shot a 108, which slaps square in the molars the old adage, "Don't despair, things could get worse." The person who spoke those immortal words obviously has never had the misfortune to play a round of golf with me.

Ah, but hope springs forever eternal. I just got a phone call from one of my more fateful and adventurous golfing buddies. He wants me to play golf with him tomorrow! Dare I? Yes, I dare. It only takes one memorable shot mixed in among the myriad of awful attempts at perfection to lure one back to the hypnotic call of the game...and I did indeed have a couple of those. So, it's best I run out now to the local sporting goods store and stock up on another dozen or so golf balls. I'm sure I'll have plenty of opportunities to make use of them. I wonder what my friend meant when he said he was bringing his hard hat? Oh well... "Fore!!"