Jerry Nelson: Regarding Golf
Editor’s Note: Author Jerry Nelson is taking some time off from his weekly column. Here is one of his past columns from his Oldies But Goodies file.
I have a deep and abiding apathy for golf.
I don’t know why. I guess it’s because the whole idea of grown men and women whacking a little ball and then chasing it around on a field of grass simply strikes me as wasteful and ridiculous.
“Just look at those silly people hitting that poor, defenseless little ball!” I’d mutter to my family whenever we cruised past a golf course. “And look at all that perfectly good farmland going to waste! I bet they could raise a heckuva corn crop there instead of all that useless grass!”
A new golf course opened in our area some years ago. This may have had something to do with my wife’s purchase of a handful of used, mismatched golf clubs at a rummage sale.
“What are those things?” I growled. “Some newfangled fly swatters?”
“No, you goof!” she replied. “They are golf clubs.”
“Oh, ok. I’ll keep one in the cab of my pickup. You never know when there might be a golf that needs clubbing. What’s up with all those gashes on the shank? They look like tooth marks. Human tooth marks.”
I should have known that no good could ever come of this golf business. But I let down my guard and was lured by my family into going out to the driving range to whack a few balls. “Just for fun,” they urged.
I soon learned that saying “golf” and “fun” in the same sentence legally constitutes an oxymoron.
I had never so much as held a golf club until that day. Yet by some miracle, my very first drive sailed a good 100 yards. Our youngest son, who was 14 at the time, was deeply impressed. “Whoa, Dad!” he exclaimed. “Can you do that again?”
I said I would try, and my next drive went even farther.
The whole experience took on a Zen-like quality. I didn’t think, I simply felt as one with the club as I teed up and whacked ball after ball. Our son’s loud praise of my majestic drives drew a small crowd of spectators. They began to applaud as I launched balls into airspace normally reserved for jetliners.
The head of my driver glowed cherry red from fricative heat; the golf balls left tiny contrails as they streaked through the atmosphere. Beautiful young women held their breath each time I drew back my thunderous club. Fathers put their small children on their shoulders so that they could witness sports history in the making. Hardened old golf veterans wept openly.
I could imagine the headline: “Unknown Dairy Farmer Replaces Woods As Pro Golf’s Darling, Signs Multi-Jillion-Dollar Endorsement Deal.”
I could almost hear sportscasters discussing my phenomenal talent. “He claims that his skill was honed by all those years of milking cows and shoveling manure. Let’s chat for a moment with his caddy, Phil Mickelson.”
Then I made a huge mistake: I began to think. Specifically, I began to think about my form.
“Let’s see,” I murmured, “How does Tiger do it? I believe it’s knees bent and elbows straight. Or is it the other way around?”
I quickly discovered that golf equipment can be highly defective. For instance, some golf balls will spontaneously disintegrate, let a club pass through the space they occupied, then rematerialize at the top of the tee. A titter ran through the gallery, and someone coughed, “A whiffer!”
They think I missed, eh? Well, I’ll show them! I turned to my wife and told her to inform NORAD that a new object was about to be blasted into low earth orbit.
I gripped my driver and unleashed the mightiest swing I could muster. Gone was the feeling of Zen and oneness with the club; my only thought was to smack that ball. Hard!
The wind from my swing flattened the grass for yards around and sucked the toupee off a bystander. The ball reacted by merrily skipping across the ground at a lackadaisical pace.
A feeling of insanity gripped my cerebellum as I teed up ball after ball and took wild, maniacal swings. The crowd dissipated as I hooked, sliced and shanked a dozen balls. None of my drives went farther than a few yards.
I cursed, I swore, I foamed; I pounded the earth with the obviously defective driver. Our son finally yelled, “Stop, Dad! That’s enough!” as he gently removed the shank of the driver from between my clenched teeth.
On our way home, I glared gloomily out the car window at the golf course.
“You know what?” I grumbled, “I’ve changed my mind about golf courses. I think they should bust them all up and plant them to soybeans!”
If you’d like to contact Jerry Nelson to do some public speaking, or just to register your comments, you can email him at jjpcnels@itctel.com. His book, “Dear County Agent Guy,” is available at Workman.com and at booksellers everywhere.
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