So Doyce and I went golfing today. On the one hand, neither of us had scores worth writing home about. On the other hand, the Ball Loss Rate was much lower than at some of the other courses we’ve been on. And, as Doyce noted, there are much worse views and places one could be on a Saturday afternoon.
My folks are visiting in a couple of weeks. We’ll probably go out again then. Funny. My folks both golfed when I was a kid, as did my Mom’s folks. When we’d visit Nono and Nona, they’d usually go out golfing at least once. I have memories of playing with cut-down clubs at the Stanford driving range. And, eventually, playing when we’d visit Santa Barbara. Even took some classes at a local golf course when we lived in Diamond Bar.
And then, for years … nothing. No real interest. Nobody to golf with.
When I moved to Denver, I was bequeathed my Nono’s golf clubs — some original Ping irons, some woods. They sat, gathering dust, in my garage for five years.
And yet … I started discovering folks around me who golfed. Doyce. A couple of his friends. Folks at work. And it became, sort of, what the hell?
So I don’t golf nearly enough to be good at it. Weeks, months go by without my picking up my clubs. And, when I do go out, I don’t play all that well.
But Doyce was right. There are lots worse places to spend an afternoon. And it’s fun, and if you focus on the fun parts, and don’t get too angsty about the times you send the ball off at 80 degrees to your aim, or when you send the ball dribbling forward five feet … well, what the hell.
Besides, I don’t get much exercise. It’s nice to think I have a “sport” I play.
“I don’t know,” Margie comments. “Are you allowed to blog in your underwear?”