A few years back I thought I should probably try my hand at golf. Historically I'm a pretty fair athlete and golf seemed like it would offer me years of enjoyment long after my rotator cuff, back and legs start to fail. I bought the clubs, took a few lessons, got the junior club membership. We have a very nice country club here in my neck of the woods. A good course, inexpensive membership, no battles for tee times. Seemed like a good idea.
It took about a year for the good idea to morph into a pretty bad idea. I'm impatient, too competitive, and wholly intolerant of the necessary learning curve. I just figured it should be easy which, if you play golf, you know could not be further from the truth. So, with significantly less than 40 hours total time on my clubs they were retired to the basement down at the office. And there they stayed until my 4 year old decided he wanted to play golf. Ev has his own miniature set. I reclaimed mine from the basement and over the course of the summer we would go out in the backyard and hit soft foam balls. I actually thought I was starting to rekindle my interest. Until this weekend.
This weekend we enjoyed unseasonably warm weather. Ever the involved Dad, Ev and I headed out back to take a few more strokes at the elusive white ball before the snow flies. That's when it happened: My second swing I shaved just a fuzz ball's worth of grass off the surface. As I began to walk away toward the ball I hear this little voice say, "Golfer's fix their divots." Next stroke I wiff the ball. "It's a club, not a bat."
I stayed with it for a few more minutes before hanging it up-- hopefully for the year. I seriously doubt our weather will hold to the point I'll be golfing here in Michigan any time before May 2012. It's just as well, too, as I'm not sure I will ever recover the confidence needed to return to the game. Not after the berating I received from my 4 year old coach. Let it snow.
No comments:
Post a Comment