Do you play golf? Do you enjoy golf?

These are two completely different questions in my book. Yes I sometimes play golf, but, unlike any other sport, it’s not what I’d call “enjoyable.”

As a young gal, my parents signed me up for kid’s golf. I dreaded the days I had to head to the course for practice. I’d grab my set of ancient clubs out of the trunk, sling the bag over my shoulder and carry it uphill to the clubhouse. The only highlight was when mom would buy me treats beforehand – afterward, too if I was lucky.

We’d head to the tee box and tee off. I always broke tees and drove my pink “Flying Lady” ball into a section of pine trees. Great start. I would then observe each of my peers line up and take their shot. We each had our own awful way of getting it done. Some would whiff it. Others shank it, and some kids would take out divots larger than a Frisbee.

I’d zig-zag my way to the green, hitting the ball far too frequently. The fairway felt like a river I was trying to paddle upstream on, only not as entertaining. When we finally reached the green, I’d chip over it. Then I’d chip over it the other direction. Then I’d chip over it the other way. Frustrated and unable to keep track of my score, I’d generally resort to barely hitting the ball closer, a few inches at a time, until the ball finally made it onto the green. Thankfully, putting kept me sane. I particularly enjoyed it when I didn’t “tap” the ball past the pin more than three times.

Eventually I switched to a less frustrating sport – softball. I wasn’t a superstar at that either, but I didn’t dread it as much.

Several years later, I worked at my hometown course for a summer. As an employee, I earned a free membership. Of course I was going to golf – it was free. I used to pay for the torture, why wouldn’t I participate at no cost? So I tried it again… willingly!

For some reason I pictured myself picking up a little Tiger Woods skill during my years away from golf. I put together a set of clubs from the rubbish in my family’s basement which included a few drivers, two irons (one left and one right) and a putter.

Stepping up to tee off, I felt a little pressure. My sister, who golfed on her college team, stood quietly observing. I was going to do well. Surely I had picked up plenty of coordination and dedication and concentration since I was eleven, right? Sure, I hadn’t swung a club for a few years, but practice never really did all that much for me anyway.

I swung… and missed. Completely missed the ball. How could I be able to hit balls flying toward me at 50 mph, but I couldn’t swing and hit a stationary one? Absolutely humiliated, I was relieved to be out of view from anyone other than my sister. And we both know she’s no good at softball.

She pointed out that softball probably ruined my golf game. Somehow she finished out the round with me complaining about my sore hands, watching four of my not-so-lengthy shots for every one of her own and waiting while I made sure all golfers were out of view before I took my next shot.

It’s really too bad – I was sure my golf skills were going to take me places.

 

Shootin’ the Wit is a weekly column about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.