Aug 17 2009
And Then There Was Golf
Saturday night, my wife asked how I was planning to spend my Sunday. My response was that I was going to grill burgers, fix dinner, clean up and dismiss myself so that I could watch golf.
She should have seen that coming. I had been watching the P.G.A. Championship nonstop since Thursday. This day was not going to be any different.
I’m addicted to the sport. I have been playing for over thirty years. I play every chance I get and I even made sure our wedding date did not conflict with any of my four religious holidays….The Masters, U.S. Open, British Open and P.G.A.
I still get eye rolls when it comes to my golf but going into this marriage, I stated that I play a lot of golf, I watch a lot of golf and to deny me my passion makes me extremely cranky with a reasonable chance of my head exploding.
I will be out there playing deep into winter, when sane people are home in front of a fire or under blankets. I shut it down only when forced to by frozen ground or snow.
I buy clothes not for how they look on me but based on if I can play golf comfortably in them. Cool, loose and breathable in the summer. Warm, loose and how well will it layer up on those 35 degree days when I am sporting ear muffs, a stocking cap and winter gloves in the late fall and early winter.
My man room is decorated with golf posters and scorecards from around the world. I spend my winters reading about golf, researching golf and adding to my substantial collection of autographed trading cards of major (i.e. religious holiday) victors.
Sad, I suppose, unless, of course, you are me. Then you are normal.
The wife kindly puts up with me. She knows she never has to worry about where I am.
I am either home, running kids around, doing errands or from March to November, on the golf course. So, my mistress is my fourteen golf clubs and whatever golf course I am standing on at that particular time.
Which made it inevitable that I would have pulled my three kids into my personal black hole. They all sport their own junior sets and in testament to their enthusiasm, my yard sports more divots than any practice tee at any golf course in the world.
Plastic golf balls only though. They have pinged so many balls off the house, windows, passing cars and people, my home insurance would have been canceled by now if I had permitted real golf balls.
Real ball, “Sorry about your window, sir. That was a pretty sweet driver swing though. My rangefinder says my 5-year-old smoked that one 150 yards. Can we have the ball back?”
Plastic ball, “Sorry about that, sir. Can I get you some ice for that welt?”
So, today, as I was settled down wondering if Tiger could win major (i.e. religious holiday) number fifteen, one boy and then the other crawled up next to me to watch the final two holes.
Not a peep. For the first time ever, they sat as I, transfixed by the images in front of us.
And, when Y.A. Yang slew the mighty Tiger, I looked at each and asked, “Well, what did you think?”
“That was cool, Daddy. Can we go golfing tomorrow?”
Yes, my little golfing buddies, yes.
