My Golf Ball

golfball“People like you should never play golf.”

That was my son talking last Christmas.  The very son who at one time professed love for me, who was now refusing to play golf with me – ever.

“Why do you say that?” I asked, not a little heartbroken, “is it my eyesight or my aim?”

“Both,” he said, “and I don’t know which is worse.”

He was probably thinking of the last time we played golf.

I had found a set of clubs in my shed. Which was no surprise because all kinds of things suddenly appear and disappear in my shed, so why not a set of clubs?

But golf clubs belong to that special class of objects which includes things like waffle makers and pipe wrenches. Everyone has them. Everyone is surprised to discover they have them. No one uses them and no one really knows where they came from.

And anyone who denies this has simply not looked hard enough.

Anyways, I found these golf clubs about the same time my son became an avid golfer, so we agreed to go on a Saturday outing together.

I teed off first.

My First Shot

After a couple of swings which my son had the good grace to not count, I finally connected with the ball and that was the last I saw of it.

My Second Shot

The ball launch off on what might be called an environmental odyssey – to explore the nests and burrows of the woodland creatures who had the misfortune to live along the fairway.

They were not amused.

My Third Shot

That one hooked into the parking lot and acquainted itself with the SUVs, sedans and pickups who slumbered there.

My Fourth Shot

Romped across a tree-lined suburban boulevard into a vinyl-clad dwelling to greet the folks who lived therein.

“We have to do something about your swing,” my son informed me.

So while he played golf, I devoted the afternoon to straightening out my stroke. With considerable success.

My shots no longer sliced into squirrel nests or hooked into parking lots, instead they flew straight and true – directly into the water hazards.

No matter where the water lay or which direction I was pointed, my ball inevitable caused a splash.

“You’re giving the bass headaches,” my son complained.

“You’re exaggerating,” I groused back at him.

“Every shot you hit not only landed in the water but beaned a fish,” he insisted.

“Get serious,” I told him.

He strode over to the nearest pond, waded in up to his knees and pulled out a comatose carp.

That was it for me and golf.

Until last Christmas when my son presented me with a small box, wrapped in green paper and tied with a red ribbon.

I opened the box to discover a shiny white golf ball. I thought it was his way of inviting me to try the game again.

“Turn it over,” he said.

And there embossed on the opposite side in brilliant gold lettering was the word: BASSMASTER.

 

Author: Almost Iowa

www.almostiowa.com

37 thoughts on “My Golf Ball”

  1. Splendid story. But put the clubs back in the shed, behind the lawn aerator and electric driveway broom. Then you (and the carp) can sleep well tonight knowing that golf course fish all over America are safe.

  2. Golf. Isn’t that the word they came up with when they ran out of other, more popular, four-letter combinations?

    I never understood the attraction to the sport…but, then again, my aiming skills are absent. It’s a good thing I’m not male, else I’d be in hot water with the missus over the state of the toilet.

  3. You have portrayed my experience with golf to a tee, Greg! Except I’m not even a good aim when it comes to knocking out fish. But I am magnetically attracted to water. It wasn’t the price of greens fees that made me quit – it was the price of golf balls! I finally gave my clubs away last summer, and I use my waffle iron on a regular basis, so that will be staying!

  4. That comatose carp did me in. I had to give up golf at age 10, because I was the sort to wrap my clubs around trees in frustration. The trees didn’t do anything to deserve it. They usually deflected the ball back to the fairway and away from the rough! Actually, I do play once in a very great while.

  5. I tried golfing once or twice, with dismal results. Not nearly as funny as yours though…but hold your head high. You may not be a great golfer, but you are an extraordinary fisherman. Who else can nail a fish with a golf ball? I think there should actually be a trophy for that.

  6. My husband calls the ones that go into the water – swimmers. 🙂 He is a decent senior golfer and enjoys the game. I tried when I was in Corporate America because it was what was expected. I hated it. Still do. I’d rather watch paint dry. 🙂

  7. Golf? Isn’t that the thing where you pay to hit a ball and then go for a long walk finding it only to repeat the process? Never could quite understand it……. would rather gallop over the grounds tearing up the precious turf.

    1. The irony of all this is that I live on what used to be a golf course. The former, former, former owner of our ten acres built a golf course on it. We have greens, sand traps and tees, all over-grown now – and yes, a pond as a water-hazard. Every year, we pull a couple of golf balls out of the pond.

      All that remains of the golf course is a lot of grass to mow, but I love mowing grass.

  8. It’s good to know your limits. I have my dad’s golf clubs in the attic above my garage – I promised him I would never use them – I’d hate to ruin their average.

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