Fall is here and it’s time to find the fairways
Published 9/13/05
One of the reasons I’m so fond of September is that it’s the start of the golfing season. At least for me.
For a lot of golfers, this is the time of year when they head back to reality and the workplace. It’s a perfect time for wannabes who’ve been waiting behind the trees to take over the fairways.
Wannabes play a short season. Their window of opportunity passes quickly. Before long, the leaves have covered their best intentions. So I hit the driving range last week for the first time and plan to play this week.
I suppose real golfers go directly to the first tee after loosening up their swing with a bucket of balls. But I’ve got to work up some courage, meet with my shrink a couple of times, drive a few laps around the golf course’s parking lot, look to see who’ll be playing behind me and then head quickly for the first hole.
I’ve often speculated as to why I’m such a klutz on the course. Do I just not have the golf gene? Is it my inability to speak golf as a second language—my unfamiliarity with words like bogey, birdie and gimme? Actually, I think it’s because I used to make fun of golf when I was younger. I liked to quote Mark Twain who said, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”
By the time I discovered that it could be a walk to remember and took some lessons from a pro, it was too late. The game had my number. Golf exacted its revenge from the beginning.
For me, the beginning was Boca Re-al, which today is a hayfield at the corner of Scatterfield and Cross Street, a weedy set of greens grown awry. The good thing about Boca was that I could hook, slice or whiff and no one stared. At least for very long. You didn’t have to be a sober John Daly to play Boca. Because it had a loose dress code, you would see guys playing in long pants and no shirts. Not only could you play out of a partner’s golf bag, you could also play out of his grocery bag.
A few years back, I inexplicably found myself—along with my dad—playing the Eagle Point Golf Resort in Bloomington, one of Indiana’s premier golf courses. Because I was antsy about the regulars accumulating in their carts behind us, I was looking backward more than forward. And because I didn’t know the course, I tried to follow the twosome in front of us and hit into their divots. On one of the holes on the front nine, there’s a rise where the putting green is slightly obscured. So I chipped onto the green in an area just behind the twosome. They looked back briefly, looked up and walked on. When we arrived at our shots, I realized that I had actually chipped onto the next tee platform and missed the green by a kilometer or two.
It was a long stressful day but fortunately on the back nine we were clobbered by a huge rainstorm. Dad and I jumped in our carts and headed for the clubhouse. However, the location of the clubhouse was not immediately clear, we missed our exit and, well, you get the picture. By the time we found the clubhouse, our bags were full of water. We drove behind the clubhouse and dumped them discretely. Clubs in hand, I briefly eyed the big blue dumpster behind the Eagle Pointe clubhouse.
Speaking of water, I was surprised to find myself driving consistently while at the Killbuck driving range last week. Because I hadn’t played in a couple of years but was trying to get ready for the fall season, I continued to swing away even after a rain cloud parked itself over Killbuck for about ten minutes. While others ran for the barn, I continued to impress myself with a number of lengthy tee shots. I wasn’t going to let a little shower ruin my game. And then, in what may be one for the record books, I let go with a drive that, well, I didn’t get the distance on the ball but I know the slippery one iron went a good 50 yards.
This is not so much an announcement of the fall golfing season as it is fair warning.
One of the reasons I’m so fond of September is that it’s the start of the golfing season. At least for me.
For a lot of golfers, this is the time of year when they head back to reality and the workplace. It’s a perfect time for wannabes who’ve been waiting behind the trees to take over the fairways.
Wannabes play a short season. Their window of opportunity passes quickly. Before long, the leaves have covered their best intentions. So I hit the driving range last week for the first time and plan to play this week.
I suppose real golfers go directly to the first tee after loosening up their swing with a bucket of balls. But I’ve got to work up some courage, meet with my shrink a couple of times, drive a few laps around the golf course’s parking lot, look to see who’ll be playing behind me and then head quickly for the first hole.
I’ve often speculated as to why I’m such a klutz on the course. Do I just not have the golf gene? Is it my inability to speak golf as a second language—my unfamiliarity with words like bogey, birdie and gimme? Actually, I think it’s because I used to make fun of golf when I was younger. I liked to quote Mark Twain who said, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”
By the time I discovered that it could be a walk to remember and took some lessons from a pro, it was too late. The game had my number. Golf exacted its revenge from the beginning.
For me, the beginning was Boca Re-al, which today is a hayfield at the corner of Scatterfield and Cross Street, a weedy set of greens grown awry. The good thing about Boca was that I could hook, slice or whiff and no one stared. At least for very long. You didn’t have to be a sober John Daly to play Boca. Because it had a loose dress code, you would see guys playing in long pants and no shirts. Not only could you play out of a partner’s golf bag, you could also play out of his grocery bag.
A few years back, I inexplicably found myself—along with my dad—playing the Eagle Point Golf Resort in Bloomington, one of Indiana’s premier golf courses. Because I was antsy about the regulars accumulating in their carts behind us, I was looking backward more than forward. And because I didn’t know the course, I tried to follow the twosome in front of us and hit into their divots. On one of the holes on the front nine, there’s a rise where the putting green is slightly obscured. So I chipped onto the green in an area just behind the twosome. They looked back briefly, looked up and walked on. When we arrived at our shots, I realized that I had actually chipped onto the next tee platform and missed the green by a kilometer or two.
It was a long stressful day but fortunately on the back nine we were clobbered by a huge rainstorm. Dad and I jumped in our carts and headed for the clubhouse. However, the location of the clubhouse was not immediately clear, we missed our exit and, well, you get the picture. By the time we found the clubhouse, our bags were full of water. We drove behind the clubhouse and dumped them discretely. Clubs in hand, I briefly eyed the big blue dumpster behind the Eagle Pointe clubhouse.
Speaking of water, I was surprised to find myself driving consistently while at the Killbuck driving range last week. Because I hadn’t played in a couple of years but was trying to get ready for the fall season, I continued to swing away even after a rain cloud parked itself over Killbuck for about ten minutes. While others ran for the barn, I continued to impress myself with a number of lengthy tee shots. I wasn’t going to let a little shower ruin my game. And then, in what may be one for the record books, I let go with a drive that, well, I didn’t get the distance on the ball but I know the slippery one iron went a good 50 yards.
This is not so much an announcement of the fall golfing season as it is fair warning.
posted by Jack W. Williams | 6:44 AM
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