

GOLF, ANYONE?
  by Jim Rosenberg
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  People (read: men) get way too serious about golf. When I
meet a business client, the first thing I do is check for golf
related tie pins, poly/poly blend hound's-tooth slacks, and slippery
shirts adorned with elaborate crests and seals. If I spot a golfer,
I know what's coming next: the golf analogies. "Jim, you hit a good
drive, but I'm afraid your approach shot is in the bunker."
Translation: I'm buying from your competitor."  It's just as well,
because I am horrible at doing business with golf nuts.

  I dread getting fax cover sheets with some lame sexist golf
cartoon about a wife nagging her husband for playing too much. I
can't bring myself to walk into their office and see the plaques
and silly little statues with sayings on them like "I Like to Putter
Around."  And when I say, "No," to the inevitable, "You a golfer,
Jim-bo?" I get a look as if I've said, "No," to "You a male, Jim-bo?"

  Golf is a sickness, like alcoholism. I see little difference
between members of AA and the PGA. Both are fanatics who have sold
out their family for an all-consuming addiction; both get little
overpriced books of cute sayings for Christmas; and both are lousy
dressers.

  I do not speak in total ignorance. I made a respectable run at
golfing beginning in college. I don't know if it counts, but I would
frequently acquire a pleasant, low-grade beer buzz and head off to
Mike Rubish's Golf City in Durham for some "Par 3" with friends.
This was merely an excuse to drink more beer and eat stale Oatmeal
Pies every time we passed the Clubhouse, but it gave me a favorable
initial impression of the sport.

  The next time I took up the game was under pressure. My father
and brothers-in-law played golf on family outings while the women
churned butter and sewed doilies. I was invited to join. I didn't
really want to, but I thought it unwise to make my entrance into
the family as an allergy-suffering, snot-nosed, sports-phobic,
skirt-wearing sissy. I carry that banner with pride now, but back
then I was still halfway trying. Amazingly, my problem was early
success. On my first real golf outing, I did quite respectably. I
made contact with the ball consistently and hit it straight, but not
far. I was a prodigy. I was the Doogie Howser of golf. I was a
natural. I was headed for a fall.

  My fall came quickly. I tried to leverage that early success
with my brother-in-law who lives close to us here in Greensboro,
NC. This was back when we had weekend mornings free before we'd
both been put up for stud. We headed out to Longview Golf Course
at the crack of dawn -- Doug with a rock solid set of championship
clubs in a rich leather bag -- and me with Barbara's "Lady Ironettes"
in a vinyl archery quiver. The woods wore little knitted pink covers
embroidered with "LOVE." I was shocked to see golfers lined up at
dawn on Sunday morning, chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes and
slamming down Budweiser, or worse. This was not the Masters.

  Every week, Doug added one nice piece of equipment: spiked shoes,
leather glove, metal wood. Every week, I added one bad habit: hook,
slice, an embarrassing high-pitched nervous giggle which undermined
what was left of my credibility. To make a long story short, I don't
think I ever got the ball airborne again, except for a brief shot on
Longview #10 which sailed out over Fleming Road and rattled around
in the roof rack of an oncoming Plymouth Voyager. From that point
on, I only played because I enjoyed Doug's company or I felt some
kind of obligation. Finally, golf and I officially broke up and
agreed to see other people.

  I'll never forget that last day we had together. It was the
me -- I thought I had left behind in Junior High School: I was
wearing thick Hubble Telescope glasses since it was too early to
put in my contacts. The humidity caused sheets of perspiration to
soak my jeans, expanding them to nine times their normal size and
weight. Most of the time, I was either pushing up my glasses or
pulling up my pants. The autumn ragweed triggered an allergy attack
of Olympian proportions, making it seem as if I was weeping. As for
my swing, it had regressed to a barbaric swat followed by the
horrible thud of the club being grounded yards before the position
of the ball. I slouched towards the clubhouse muttering to myself
and wobbling from side to side. I looked like Mr. Magoo or the last
few minutes of "The Fly" when Jeff Goldblum goes completely over to
the insect realm.

  Now when I get a little leisure time, I try to concentrate
on Travel Yahtzee. Less money, less time, less heartache.

                               {DREAM}

Copyright 1995 Jim Rosenberg, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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By day, Jim Rosenberg works in the insurance industry keeping his
sense of humor on leash.  By night, he lets it run wild and free as
the humor columnist for TRIADstyle, a weekly publication affiliated
with the News & Record in Greensboro, NC.  He has not played golf
since the incidents described in this article. abco100@nr.infi.net
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