Fun and Relaxation on the Links

When I was young, I used to pass the time by sticking needles in my eyes. Later on, I enjoyed shoving sharpened Number 2 pencils into my ears. Now that I’m middle-aged, I get my kicks by playing golf.

OK, I’ve never actually stabbed myself with sharp objects (on purpose, anyway), but the fact that I play golf is strong evidence that I have some serious masochistic tendencies.

Golf is, to be charitable, a psychotic sport. It takes up too much time; it’s way too expensive; and it’s so maddeningly frustrating that my blood pressure reading often shoots off the charts and my facial expressions routinely resemble President Trump after Mika Brzezinski says something nasty about him.

And yet, if someone says to me, “Hey Bill, do you want to sneak out of work early and play some golf?” my immediate reply is, “Yeah! Let’s do it!”

For some bizarre reason, the more pain golf inflicts on me, the more I want to play. I think this calls for some professional counseling. Even at $200 per hour, a therapist would save me some money compared to golf.

One definition of insanity is “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” By this definition, when it comes to golf, I am certifiable. Every single time I’ve ever played golf, about one-third of my shots were well-struck. But every single time I go out golfing, I think to myself, “OK, today’s the day I get into a groove and hit ONLY good shots.”

I might as well be thinking to myself, “OK, today’s the day space monkeys from Mars land a flying saucer on my front lawn and give me a large box filled with hundred-dollar bills.” (If that happens, I’ll use the money to buy a new set of irons.)

Golf, in theory, is supposed to be fun and relaxing. Let me describe a round of golf last week, and you decide if the words “fun” or “relaxing” can be found anywhere.

It was a miserably hot and humid day, and halfway through the round I felt like a washed-out dish rag. By the time we were finished, I was so sunburned people thought someone had splashed red paint onto my neck. I had a blister on my hand, and my back was aching. I missed so many three-foot putts, it made my head hurt. (Well, I’m not sure the bad shots made my head hurt. I think it might have had something to do with the fact that after every missed shot I would whack myself in the forehead with the shaft of my putter.) And finally, when the day was done, I had spent over 150 bucks.

But that’s not the insane part. The really frightening aspect of this scenario occurred as I was limping toward my car in the parking lot. One of my playing partners said, “Hey Bill, I’ve got a tee time reserved for Saturday afternoon. Do you want to join us?”

Now, of course, the only rational response at that moment should have been, “Hey, pal, I can have you arrested for making threatening statements!” But instead, without hesitating, I replied, “Sure! I’d love to!”

During the ride home, I should’ve done what a normal person would do: call my friend and tell him I can’t make it after all, since I just remembered I have to rearrange my sock drawer on Saturday afternoon. But no, I was excited about how much fun it was going to be. 

So, maybe you’ll see me on the course Saturday afternoon relaxing and having fun. I’ll be the one whacking myself in the forehead after each shot.