I always used to say I was the only guy I knew who didn't golf. Well it turns out I have a couple friends who don't. A couple. That's it.
Two summers ago a pal of mine arranged for me to have a lesson. A little information can be a dangerous thing. And with one lesson -- treat the club like a pendulum -- I found my self capable of occasionally hitting the ball in the intended direction. Thus I was smitten.
I'm a little ashamed to say but, I like golf. Once or twice a round I hit a shot that looks a lot like the guys on TV. Most of the rest of time my game, if you can call it that, doesn't resemble anything so much as a sort of desperate flailing. Stock in golf ball companies has skyrocketed since I started because I never leave the clubhouse with a bag full.
My joy in golf makes no sense of course. I can think of no activity I've ever pursued in which so little success was so reinforcing. I mean really one good swing in an afternoon is enough to encourage my return. How could I be in love with something I'm so bad at? And I have become that person who used to annoy me. The guy, or I should say person, who talks about golf. About that shot. Or that hole. Or their new driver… echhh.
I can feel myself going over the edge here. I bought golf shoes. One of my friends gave me a set of his old clubs. And Lord help me, this Saturday I might keep score.
Harry's daily commentary can be heard on many across the country.
By Harry Smith