Fore!

I ride by a golf course on my bike and wonder at the waste of so much lush, green space.  People on the other side of the fence look up and no doubt think, what a perfect access road for our carts if not for all those idiots on their bikes.

When I stumble on a golf match/tournament/round/whatever, it always looks the same to me—ball arcing high into the air, guys wearing clothes I wouldn’t be caught dead in.  I imagine golf fans could say the same about baseball, even if the outfits are way neater.  It all depends on what floats your boat, I guess.

As a good parent, I took Clare to the driving range when she asked, in fourth or fifth grade; we shared a bucket of balls.  Probably the best approach would’ve been for her to watch me and then do the opposite.  What happened instead was Clare made like a right-hand hitter going after a pitch low and outside, again and again.  For every ten balls she hit (we won’t count the whiffs here), two went so far and so straight you would’ve thought I had the next Annika Sorenstam on my hands.  As for the other eight times, who knew you could make a golf ball go at a right angle off the tee?

We didn’t pursue golf because someone always came home with a sore back.  Golf was blacklisted along with skiing—I didn’t want anything twisted, throbbing or broken a la Jim Lonborg.  With college over, Clare golfs occasionally with her boyfriend, Chris, who has proven a better teacher than yours truly.  Still, I can’t imagine being an old man remembering the time my kid had a double eagle on a par four at Dumbledore.