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News Commentary Opinion
Tourist Golf
I’ve lived in Florida for a long time and enjoy
its many benefits starting with the weather
and can even deal with the tourist traffic or
the visitors themselves…most of the time.
Case in point, a few days after the New Year,
I decided to play golf without the usual
arranged group of fellow enthusiasts or my
wife, who often plays. She had penciled in a
mall trek with our daughter thus leaving me
to my own devices.
Likewise I had found my friends occupied.
One said something about having to de-lint
his clothes dryer so I knew he would be tied
up for awhile and another had a sudden fit of
sneezing into the phone, obviously putting
him out of action for the day. No matter,
playing with new acquaintances can be fun
too. In the golf shop the young man was
most accommodating, matching me up with
a threesome who was on the first tee ready
to play.
In hindsight, I should have known there
would be trouble the minute I arrived on the
tee. The three players were in the process of
unpacking their golf bags from the airline
travel covers…but no, that’s not entirely
correct.
One had an expensive airline travel cover.
The kind with 12 zippers and nine locks, all
using a tiny little key that always seems to
get lost. I don’t understand why only nine of
the zippers have locks but then I don’t have
an expensive travel cover so the reasons
must be explained when you purchase it.
Of the two remaining players, one’s travel
cover was the rain hood that came with his
golf bag and the other had a travel cover by a
manufacturer I didn’t recognize. I believe the
brand name was either “Hefty” or “Glad” but
the cover must be very handy since he had
the duct-tape off and the cover into the trash
receptacle within about 10 seconds.
In the fine tradition of the old Dragnet TV
show, the names have been changed to
protect the innocent, so lets call them John,
I’ve lived in Florida for a long time and enjoy
its many benefits starting with the weather
and can even deal with the tourist traffic or
the visitors themselves…most of the time.
Case in point, a few days after the New Year,
I decided to play golf without the usual
arranged group of fellow enthusiasts or my
wife, who often plays. She had penciled in a
mall trek with our daughter thus leaving me
to my own devices.
Likewise I had found my friends occupied.
One said something about having to de-lint
his clothes dryer so I knew he would be tied
up for awhile and another had a sudden fit of
sneezing into the phone, obviously putting
him out of action for the day. No matter,
playing with new acquaintances can be fun
too. In the golf shop the young man was
most accommodating, matching me up with
a threesome who was on the first tee ready
to play.
In hindsight, I should have known there
would be trouble the minute I arrived on the
tee. The three players were in the process of
unpacking their golf bags from the airline
travel covers…but no, that’s not entirely
correct.
One had an expensive airline travel cover.
The kind with 12 zippers and nine locks, all
using a tiny little key that always seems to
get lost. I don’t understand why only nine of
the zippers have locks but then I don’t have
an expensive travel cover so the reasons
must be explained when you purchase it.
Of the two remaining players, one’s travel
cover was the rain hood that came with his
golf bag and the other had a travel cover by a
manufacturer I didn’t recognize. I believe the
brand name was either “Hefty” or “Glad” but
the cover must be very handy since he had
the duct-tape off and the cover into the trash
receptacle within about 10 seconds.
In the fine tradition of the old Dragnet TV
show, the names have been changed to
protect the innocent, so lets call them John,
from the back tees but sadly, they were not
up to the task.
The turning point was number six, a long
down hill par-3 that plays into the prevailing
wind.
We had been sitting there, next to the tee, for
some time letting groups play through and it
was plainly my fault. You see I had neglected
to bring several extra dozen balls with me
when I left the house. John, Paul and George
had lost, out of bounded or sunk all of theirs
in the prior five holes.
The savior (savioress? I’m not sure of the
politically correct term) was a young lady
driving the refreshment cart. My three
companions were exceptionally pleased and
dispatched her to the clubhouse to purchase
more golf balls.
When she returned with I believe it was four
boxes of the type of ball that comes 15 to the
dozen and sells for the price of a Big Mac,
they rewarded her with a $10.00 tip and an
offer to buy dinner back at their suite. She
declined and risked serious injury for the
balance of the day driving in front of tees and
through landing areas to avoid our foursome.
The remainder of the round was a trial since
my new friends still seemed incapable of
hitting a fairway much less a green in
regulation. They did decide however to move
up two sets of tees after George, or maybe it
was Paul, said he had a back spasm.
Careful reading of this report may cause you
to ask why I didn’t just quit at the end of nine
holes. A good question and there are two
reasons. First, my journalistic sense told me
at some time I would need a topic and this
incident would be appropriate. And secondly,
I saw a lot of me in John, Paul and George
back when I lived in the land of snow and
taxes and would scheme for a golf break in
sunny Florida.
So, when we finished and before they rushed
off to get in another eighteen before dark or
maybe it was to track down the refreshment
cart driver, I gave George my telephone
number and told him to be sure to call the
next time they were in town.
up to the task.
The turning point was number six, a long
down hill par-3 that plays into the prevailing
wind.
We had been sitting there, next to the tee, for
some time letting groups play through and it
was plainly my fault. You see I had neglected
to bring several extra dozen balls with me
when I left the house. John, Paul and George
had lost, out of bounded or sunk all of theirs
in the prior five holes.
The savior (savioress? I’m not sure of the
politically correct term) was a young lady
driving the refreshment cart. My three
companions were exceptionally pleased and
dispatched her to the clubhouse to purchase
more golf balls.
When she returned with I believe it was four
boxes of the type of ball that comes 15 to the
dozen and sells for the price of a Big Mac,
they rewarded her with a $10.00 tip and an
offer to buy dinner back at their suite. She
declined and risked serious injury for the
balance of the day driving in front of tees and
through landing areas to avoid our foursome.
The remainder of the round was a trial since
my new friends still seemed incapable of
hitting a fairway much less a green in
regulation. They did decide however to move
up two sets of tees after George, or maybe it
was Paul, said he had a back spasm.
Careful reading of this report may cause you
to ask why I didn’t just quit at the end of nine
holes. A good question and there are two
reasons. First, my journalistic sense told me
at some time I would need a topic and this
incident would be appropriate. And secondly,
I saw a lot of me in John, Paul and George
back when I lived in the land of snow and
taxes and would scheme for a golf break in
sunny Florida.
So, when we finished and before they rushed
off to get in another eighteen before dark or
maybe it was to track down the refreshment
cart driver, I gave George my telephone
number and told him to be sure to call the
next time they were in town.
least I don’t think I am).
All three hailed from the great state of Ohio,
city of Columbus, and were visiting for the
express purpose of playing as much golf as
they could jam into four days. They were
staying in one of those “All Suites” hotels
having paid for a golf package that included
the hotel and a rental automobile only one
size down from a roller skate.
But they were ready to tee it up, happy to be
out of the snow and cold non-golfing Ohio
weather.
George took the lead in organizing the wager
and asked me my handicap but I deferred
participation citing an old injury and besides I
didn’t want to get in the middle of the
competition they’d been relishing since
making their reservations.
My contribution was to inquire, “Which tees
would you like to play from?” This was a
mistake but as mentioned earlier my wife
had let me out by myself and sometimes that
much freedom goes to my head. George’s
reply was quick in coming. “We’ll play the
backs. John’s a six handicap, Paul is a nine
and I was a two the last I looked.”
Thus started the golf round from hell. The
back tees at our course measure 7,017-
yards and with the usual winter zephyr from
the northeast it’s the equivalent to about
7,400.
Understand that none of them had hit a ball
in maybe three months to say nothing about
practicing or warming up prior to the round
so as expected the tee shots on the first hole
were pretty ugly. However, the page of my
“How to be a Real Man” handbook must be
missing which explains why anyone wants to
play from the back tees in the first place. Ah
well, at least it wasn’t snowing.
As the round progressed our group’s
testosterone level got to be pretty high,
meaning amongst the three northern visitors.
For the first few holes they continued to play
All three hailed from the great state of Ohio,
city of Columbus, and were visiting for the
express purpose of playing as much golf as
they could jam into four days. They were
staying in one of those “All Suites” hotels
having paid for a golf package that included
the hotel and a rental automobile only one
size down from a roller skate.
But they were ready to tee it up, happy to be
out of the snow and cold non-golfing Ohio
weather.
George took the lead in organizing the wager
and asked me my handicap but I deferred
participation citing an old injury and besides I
didn’t want to get in the middle of the
competition they’d been relishing since
making their reservations.
My contribution was to inquire, “Which tees
would you like to play from?” This was a
mistake but as mentioned earlier my wife
had let me out by myself and sometimes that
much freedom goes to my head. George’s
reply was quick in coming. “We’ll play the
backs. John’s a six handicap, Paul is a nine
and I was a two the last I looked.”
Thus started the golf round from hell. The
back tees at our course measure 7,017-
yards and with the usual winter zephyr from
the northeast it’s the equivalent to about
7,400.
Understand that none of them had hit a ball
in maybe three months to say nothing about
practicing or warming up prior to the round
so as expected the tee shots on the first hole
were pretty ugly. However, the page of my
“How to be a Real Man” handbook must be
missing which explains why anyone wants to
play from the back tees in the first place. Ah
well, at least it wasn’t snowing.
As the round progressed our group’s
testosterone level got to be pretty high,
meaning amongst the three northern visitors.
For the first few holes they continued to play