Monday, September 24, 2007

www.whiteville.com

By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer

I have to admit, golf can be challenging. Just try hitting one of those little white balls with a .22 rifle at 100 yards.

I thought a lot about golf the other day when I was stuck at the house nursing a pulled muscle in my shooting arm. It was the second day of dove season; the Boss let us off work early for Labor Day, the weather was perfect, and the birds were flying like lies in an election year.

Naturally, I almost yanked my arm out of joint exiting the truck at home. Life is not fair.

Hence, I found myself waiting for the evening news to come on the television, and to add insult to my injury, I found myself afflicted with a golf game.

“Well, John, he’s gonna have to hit that ball a long way,” the announcer said, or something like that.
“Yes, he is, Bob, and you know the bend of the remuda and the zephyring southeast breeze aren’t going to be good for that long of a hit.”

“He faced a similar situation at Snobby Links three years ago, though, during the championship. That was after he caught a tough wienerschnitzel at the match sponsored by another bank no one but filthy rich people have ever heard of…”

Well, maybe I didn’t get the whole conversation exactly right, but you get the drift.

Now, I have nothing against golf in general; my brother-in-law and father-in-law get as much pleasure from a round of golf as I do from an afternoon in the woods. Golf seems to be a healthful sport. You walk a lot, and spend a lot of time outside. Those are two activities which I enjoy. I would never snicker at someone who can whack a little ball several hundred feet and have the confidence that, someday, they might be able to make it land in a little hole, and with one shot. That’s either optimism, or insanity.

It just does nothing for me as a leisure activity.

Another reason I never really got into golf because I’ve known so many golfers who drank a lot of alcohol before, during and after their games.

And before you start writing me nasty letters, I know not all golfers drink, and I know not everybody who drinks a cold beer on the golf course is a drunkard. It’s just that a lot of the golfers I’ve known drank, and drank a lot.

I quit drinking a few years ago, but since many of my deerhunting friends have the same affliction, I won’t be hyper-critical if someone wants an adult beverage. The difference between golfers and deerhunters is that most of the drinkin’ deer hunters I know wait until the sun’s gone down and the guns are unloaded. There’s an old but good rule that says gunpowder and alcohol don’t mix. That doesn’t seem to be the case with golf.

On a related subject, once upon a time, I considered fishing and drinking synonymous. Still, I was never so drunk that I hooked a buddy with a Jitterbug, although there were a few close calls involving Beetlespins and Budweiser.

I guess golf is different, because I’ve never heard of anyone being killed by a golf ball because some drunk thought the victim’s head was at the center of a green. If someone must consume alcohol whilst enjoying a sport, golf might be the ticket.

The summer after my Sister the Troll was married, I found a rusted, antique three or five or 19 iron under our house. Nothing doing but I wanted to learn the game.

Papa had played a little social golf back in the 1920’s and 1930’s, and it seemed a capital idea to him. We measured off a putting green in the back lot (directly across what passed as the neighborhood baseball diamond) and used a peanut can to line the hole. There were golf balls aplenty to be picked up near the cemetery and in the woods behind a neighbor’s house, so we were in business.

After a few hours whacking scarred-up balls around the yard, we came to a mutual agreement that the limited amount of time Papa and I had together was better spent fishing (and no, Papa didn’t drink). The golf club I later found handy when I raised meat rabbits, but that’s a column for another day.

Of course, that one afternoon on a jury-rigged green didn’t complete our attempts at playing golf; we occasionally spent a Sunday afternoon playing Putt-Putt, which I understand is considered somewhat leprous by most golfing standards. Still, we had fun, and that was what mattered.

None of the golfers I watched the other day seemed to be having fun, except for the one who took home enough prize money to finance several third world countries. Everybody clapped, and a lot of other players shook his hand in what seemed to be a gesture of genuine sportsmanship. I admire that type of attitude.

Golf just doesn’t appear to be my kind of game, but I suppose if I could put my own twist on it, I might find it reasonably distracting.

So if you see a hairy man with a .22 rifle coming up behind you on the links one weekend, just let me play through. I won’t criticize your backswing or your follow-through, I promise. After all, golf is supposed to be fun.

Jefferson Weaver is a staff writer with The News Reporter. He may be reached at 642-4104, ext. 227, or via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.