Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Why do I even play?

Throughout the course of a blazingly hot Sunday afternoon in Mesa, Arizona I became convinced of one thing.

Satan invented golf.

There are probably several factors for this heavy realization, the least of which not being the fact that walking outside attempting to play a game in 115 degree heat is not something anyone should subject themselves to. What makes me truly believe that this so-called majestic game is the handy work of El Diablo is the absolute rage the game produces within me.

I hit very few good drives. Usually I get to experience a vast landscape of nature and wildlife as I search the outermost boundaries of the golf course for anything resembling my poorly hit golf ball. The frustration of mass destruction, however, does not come from the shanks off the tee, but rather following a perfect middle-of-the-fairway drive.

Several times during our outing on Sunday (several being a fairly loose term), I hit a couple of perfect (by my less than stellar standards) drives into the fairway that gave me confidence that perhaps my subpar game was heading to at least somewhere towards bogey respectability. But every time I would walk to my ball in the fairway looking to reach a green in regulation the result would always be the same. A horrendous golf shot.

There are fewer things in sport that I have experienced more frustrating than following a glorious, sexy drive with a 50 yard, laughable ground ball. Never do I long for the use of a time machine more than when I am out on the links. This would allow me to travel to 12th Century Scotland and discourage the locals there from creating such a ludicrous game.

The problem with golf, though, is that like Satan does with all his evils, he tempts you to enjoy its temporary pleasures even when you know they are just that. Has anyone ever had true sustained happiness during the course of a golf round? You tell me their name and I will call them a liar.

And then there is the laughter. The darn laughter. Get four buddies who make a lot of pretty funny shots on the course and you are in for a rib-busting afternoon.

My buddy Hank: Nick, what did you score on that hole?

Me: I don't know. Hey, what's four plus completely horrible at golf.

Hank: I'll put you down for an eight.

Side-splitting laughter occurs.

And as much as I know the horrors golf can bring into my life, though, I will likely never be able to stay away.

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