If you turn on the telly to check out the U.S. Open, you will see shots hit into the wire grass, the pine trees, the pine needles, the water, hell it seems like everywhere but in the hole.
When I go golfing, sporting my 35+ handicap, I can putt the ball and it might end up right back at my feet.
Like World #1 Scottie Scheffler and like all-time great Tiger Woods, so the sting of recording at LEAST a snowman (8) on the hole will be somewhat assuaged by the company I am keeping.
But watching all of these multi-millionaires struggle in the Carolina sun should show those who think golf is either “silly” or “easy,” that it is neither.
Granted, it is not world-changing, but take a look at the PGA website sometime to see the charities they are involved with.
Impressive.
“Golf is”, as my pops used to pontificate, “truly the last bastion of civility in this tumultuous world.”
Agreed.
I have an appointment Monday to hopefully fix my current issue with my prosthetic limb. The pain is keeping me off the golf course and if you saw the weather lately, you’ll understand why I tried going anyway, but had to pull up lame after seven holes. The shinbone on my stump was rubbed raw and bleeding.
But the only thing I remember on that round was on hole number five where I filled and finished a bowl, ambled to the tee, and carefully placed the ball on a flat piece of grass.
The setting couldn’t be more perfect: sunrays fighting for space through the large green oak and maple leaves, squirrels dancing in the tall grass, and ducks getting their early morning constitutions before the oppressive heat appears.
No preamble.
I walked up to my ball like I ‘d been doing this all my life. I tool a few perfunctory swings for practice (for the imaginary cameras in my mind), but I had already decided I was going to stick it.
I checked for wind.
Dead still.
I went right at the pin some one hundred yards away.
I got under my club and lofted the ball almost vertical, floating at exactly the line I intended (for once). The ball cleared a small mound in the front of the green, bounced up and landed within a foot of the pin.
A foot.
I immediately swiveled for witnesses, but alas, it would go down as just another unwitnessed golf story.
When I was a Manager for Tony Roma’s I was at what was the known as the Tucson Open golf tournament. I was supervising a crew from my restaurant and they were doing St. Louis racks for the crowd, and the procession of golfers from the Clubhouse to the first tee.
I’m standing in line watching the golfers and Phil Mickelson walks by and I hand him my ball to sign.
He takes it, and spins it to see the logo.
“Here, he said as he flicked my ball back to me. ”That’s not a Titleist. I only sign Titleist.”
What an asshole.
I never liked him since.
Stay well.
Mark's Playhouse 