Indeed. You can gasp and roll your eyes all you like, but I am. An actual golfer. Honest.
I'm finally golfing just above that fine line that separates the embarrassing player, or the player who should not be on the course at all, from the simply bad player. At times, I may have even ventured above the next separation point - the one dividing the bad players from the not good ones. But mainly, I don't totally suck.
It is an exact science after all, that deals in such complicated categorizations as: Tiger, nice, ok, meh, bad, did you just hit someone?, totally horrid, and dude, run before they run you off.
And I no longer need to run and/or hide. I no longer need to either constantly yell FORE! or look mortified because I missed the ball completely. I no longer need to use industrial strength concealer to cover that weird bruise on my nose that was caused by a complicated sequence of events involving the shaft of my 9-iron and my golf-bag trolley. I'm finally a bruise-free golfer.
Jump of joy with me, wont you.
No? Not even one little one?
Hmph. Well, don't expect me to jump when you have a birthday, a kid, a job, or find Vegemite outside of Australia. Not even 5 centimeters off the ground. Nada.
But enough with pats on my own back (you unfriendly non-jumpers you), and inner warmth (if it wasn't for you all being so grounded), and all around feeling of golf-goddessness (-hood? -icity?), that I reach when I don't totally blow thanks to my 'healthy' self-esteem (you can't drag me down!). I'm here today to tell you a story of a golfer who should not have been on the course yesterday. A cautionary tale for all ages of golfers and those pondering the sport. A tale of my friend who has agreed to "need to be able to laugh at myself."
He's brave like that, but a golfer he's not. (Mandatory disclaimer: Not Hubby.)
So what was it that took him from the ranks of those who don't completely suck at this hitting a tiny ball to a hole hundreds of meters away with an instrument not designed to make the hitting or aiming or such easy in the first place - after all, he has been playing off and on for three years - and squarely placed him amongst those who really, really should not have been anywhere near the course, or any of the paraphernalia necessary for the sport?
Was it the fact that his score card looked like this: - - - 9 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - , meaning that he managed to finish only one hole?
Was it the fact that he lost 20 balls in 18 holes?
Was it the fact that regardless of aiming for the hole every time, he managed to hit the walkway countless times?
Was it the fact that he hit a ball neatly inside our golf cart, parked to his right and broke the plexi-glass screen when trying to cross the water directly in front of him.
Was it the fact that he almost buried himself in the bunker and still couldn't get the ball out, on several occasions?
Was it the fact that he missed the ball completely on the fairway in an optimal spot three times in a row?
Was it the fact that as we were leaving, the 4-ball behind us drove up to us and asked us whether we were missing a club, and returned my friend's 3-iron, which he had in some inexplicable way left at the tee box six holes back?
His golf on that specific day was like something out of a slapstick comedy. It was as if the universe conspired against him, and made him, with awe-inspiring accuracy and stealth - as if he was executing the intended task perfectly - make every single mistake and error in judgement and technique possible.
It was as if the closest he had ever come to golfing before was on the Playstation, and not even the new one of those, but the one from the Super Mario days. It was as if he had lost a bet with someone. It was as if every single thing he had ever learned about golf had somehow leaked out of his brain leaving him unable to execute any element of the swing. Or a pitch shot. Or a bunker shot. Or a chip shot. Or a put. Or even putting his club back in his bag.
"I have been humbled by this course," he was finally forced to admit.
The golfing deities had better use for his balls.
I'm glad they already have mine.
Guess who was the better golfer?
A, my dear, won't you still play with us? With much better luck next time? Maybe?