Friday I lost seven balls. Lost seven balls! You can’t hide the fact that you’ve lost a ball when you’re playing with witnesses! Just how embarrassing and frustrating is it when they have to disconnect from their game to assist you in finding your ball—or, in my case, yet another ball! I mean, you can only talk about how great the weather is on a few tees; after that, you get “the stare”—the one that says (silently), “Yeah, Raggio, we already agreed on that four tees ago, are you turning into the Rain Man?” Don’t you just love standing over your ball, not having one clue which direction it will go, land, end up? It’s like that experimental recipe she’s been working on all day and wants you to taste—at least that’s 50/50!
My game has gone to shit.
I’m over the ball and I suddenly realize I’m looking down at a future orphan. I have about as much confidence in my backswing as I do with what comes after. I’m hearing the encouraging remarks and I figure half of them are for me and the other half are hoping they don’t have to play Lewis and Clark again. No confidence means no “real swing,” and thus the ball is acting like it’s part of a prison break. I cop a stare at the others as I pick up my tee. They’re both checking to see if their shoes are tied. Weak smiles follow. I want to grab Lyle by the throat and yell, “What kind of friend hits it down the fucking middle every time?!”
My game has gone to shit.
Doubts arise about my pre-retirement plan to “get good at the game” again. Maybe it was a mistake: tennis was an option, as were adult baseball, writing, hiking, and becoming a monk in Argentina! I can so see the ricochet to pickle ball, poker, and any participation without humiliation!
I have purchased cheap golf balls. Told them up front, “It’s every man for himself; I’m not even going to look for you guys—write your wills now.”
I’m over my orb on the second hole pretending I’m ignoring the water when I suddenly see my ball sinking in the water past a guy named Mike Nelson. Now I can’t get Sea Hunt out of my head. I step off the ball as if there was some purpose for it, I check the wind, waggle the club, and sink a new ball for some bass to harass. I could take the incredulous stance and stare, look back at the others as if with disbelief—but I couldn’t keep a straight face if I tried.
My game has gone to shit.
I could blame it on a myriad of maladies—hand, back, foot, age, lack of sleep, wheat toast—but it would be a disingenuous effort. “Raggio, you need some range time.” Range time is like taking a rubber mallet and whacking yourself in the head until you’ve forgotten why you’re doing it. And I hear, “You should go see Mike.” A lesson with Mike is two-hour aspirin for a four-hour headache; it works if you have the ability to retain the information. At my age, the only thing I'm retaining is reflux. Gee, I wonder why I’m not in skins!!! And I know a future team that would love to have Quasimodo as a teammate! I’d rather play in more scrambles, where at least I’d have three other chances to make the fairway!
My game has gone to shit …
My game has gone to shit.
I’m over the ball and I suddenly realize I’m looking down at a future orphan. I have about as much confidence in my backswing as I do with what comes after. I’m hearing the encouraging remarks and I figure half of them are for me and the other half are hoping they don’t have to play Lewis and Clark again. No confidence means no “real swing,” and thus the ball is acting like it’s part of a prison break. I cop a stare at the others as I pick up my tee. They’re both checking to see if their shoes are tied. Weak smiles follow. I want to grab Lyle by the throat and yell, “What kind of friend hits it down the fucking middle every time?!”
My game has gone to shit.
Doubts arise about my pre-retirement plan to “get good at the game” again. Maybe it was a mistake: tennis was an option, as were adult baseball, writing, hiking, and becoming a monk in Argentina! I can so see the ricochet to pickle ball, poker, and any participation without humiliation!
I have purchased cheap golf balls. Told them up front, “It’s every man for himself; I’m not even going to look for you guys—write your wills now.”
I’m over my orb on the second hole pretending I’m ignoring the water when I suddenly see my ball sinking in the water past a guy named Mike Nelson. Now I can’t get Sea Hunt out of my head. I step off the ball as if there was some purpose for it, I check the wind, waggle the club, and sink a new ball for some bass to harass. I could take the incredulous stance and stare, look back at the others as if with disbelief—but I couldn’t keep a straight face if I tried.
My game has gone to shit.
I could blame it on a myriad of maladies—hand, back, foot, age, lack of sleep, wheat toast—but it would be a disingenuous effort. “Raggio, you need some range time.” Range time is like taking a rubber mallet and whacking yourself in the head until you’ve forgotten why you’re doing it. And I hear, “You should go see Mike.” A lesson with Mike is two-hour aspirin for a four-hour headache; it works if you have the ability to retain the information. At my age, the only thing I'm retaining is reflux. Gee, I wonder why I’m not in skins!!! And I know a future team that would love to have Quasimodo as a teammate! I’d rather play in more scrambles, where at least I’d have three other chances to make the fairway!
My game has gone to shit …
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