If you have never played golf, tennis or been on a vacation don’t bother to read today’s column.  Those who qualify, please proceed to paragraph two.

Last weekend, as I trudged through a miserable round on the The Lakes golf course at Ruttger’s Bay Lake Lodge, I pondered giving up the game that has tortured me for almost 20 years.

While playing the back nine, I knew for certain I wouldn’t attempt the tee shot across the water at No. 18.  Nope, not with an outdoor deck of diners and drinkers near the green, a crowd that might heckle a hacker with the same passion a hungry press corps devours a troubled politician.

But inexplicably I felt a surge in determination and confidence.  Maybe these feelings came from anger generated by previous failings on past holes.  Perhaps it was outrage from observing the boorish behavior of eight or so partying golfers who could have been auditioning for roles in “Caddyshack II” while yelling at one another, playing loud music and posing for photos on the fairway.

My tee shot on No. 18, a par three, took off low and straight, then landed on the green within a few feet of the hole.  Two putts and I finished with a par.

Now I was looking to play to the crowd on the nearby deck.  The apprehension of several minutes ago was gone, replaced with anticipation of admiration, perhaps even applause.

There was a problem, though.  No one had paid any attention to me.  Hardly anyone was on the deck and the few who were seated had no clue I revived my golf psyche.  I wanted to doff my cap after that surprising par but no one was interested except my wife who acknowledged I made a “nice shot” on my drive from the tee box.

Comments Welcome

Golf is a psychologically wretched game that can in a moment turn from cruel to inspiring.  A feel-good shot or a hole with a bogey fuels renewed dedication among hackers like me.

My golf game is so bad I’ve probably gone 100 miles per hour in a car more times than I have shot a round with a score less than one, zero, zero.  I find comfort in making even the luckiest of shots—something that also happened to me on the beautiful but challenging Ruttger’s course last weekend.

My tee shot from No. 15 bounced on the cart path and landed within a few feet of the hole.  Two putts and another par three!

So last weekend I left the course with a couple of pars, one bogey and a lot fewer golf balls than when I arrived.  But at least I could walk.  Several years ago I stepped in a hole in the rough on The Lakes and sprained my ankle.  A few days later I was the slowest moving dude at a convention in Las Vegas.

With my recent fatalism for injury or illness I am grateful to have escaped the course with only a bruised ego.  Within recent weeks I have cut a finger trying to open a covered container in a buffet line, stepped on the sharp end of an earring at rest on the bottom of a swimming pool and caught a nasty cold.

The cold was wicked enough to infect my wife who hardly ever catches a cold virus.  Her weekend vacation and mine were compromised by illness, but a few adult refreshments did make us feel better.

I take responsibility for giving her the cold.  If there is a virus within our zip code I am at risk.  Not always, but maybe with the same frequency that Shaquille O’Neal converts free throws.

Comments Welcome

I’ve pondered taking up tennis again.  I stopped playing four years ago when my right knee was sore.  But awhile ago, after a $60 lunch, I received some good advice on stretching from my son Bill.  Since then the knee has been much better, and well worth the cost of lunch.

A comeback might be in the making.  Years ago I took up the sport with a schoolboy friend.  We battled daily for three to four hours in the summer during our college years and kept at our rivalry through the years.

My favorite shot was a down the line right-hand forehand, preferably deep and just inside the court.  It was good enough to still generate an occasional mention from my gracious friend.

Some of my most successful years playing against him came when not only my forehand was on target but he was trying to master the two-handed backhand.  For a long while he drove those backhands into the net, sometimes giving me the winning points.

Eventually, though, my forehand accuracy slipped.  His two-hand backhand became a weapon, not just a defensive shot but a game winner.

The intense competition between us inspired my friend to buy a tennis trophy.  This piece of hardware would go annually to the winner of our summer series of matches.

Guess what?  Shortly after the trophy was born, my game went south.  A rivalry that had been close to even now was one-sided in favor of my pal.  For years he used to keep the hardware nearby, just in case I ditched my slump and won the competition.

Eventually time wore him down.  Last time I asked he didn’t even know where the trophy was.

Better locate it, pal.  I am not trashing the golf clubs yet, but tennis is on the radar.

Comments Welcome