July 26, 2007

-- The youngest Secret is showing an interest in golf, so Toney went out and bought him a cheap set of clubs, and signed him up for a weeklong “golf camp” at a local course. 

He was one of about eighty kids, and they did an hour’s worth of instruction every day, followed by nine holes on the course itself. He had a blast and I think I’m going to have to find us a driving range nearby, for a little father/son fun in the sun, or whatever.

Right now we’re just going out in the front yard and hacking around. But I’m not really a fan of hard plastic balls continuously rocketing off the sides of our cars. Ya know? We need to make other arrangements.   

When I still lived in West Virginia I monkeyed around with golf for a while. I had a set of clubs and a jaunty little towel, and all that stuff. And I fully understand why some folks get obsessed with it. 

There’s definitely an element of escape in golfing: the tranquility, the quiet, the alcohol abuse. Plus, you’re competing against yourself, and always trying to improve your score… It’s no mystery to me why the sport seems to take over so many peoples’ lives.

But I still have bad attitude toward it. 

I’m fairly certain it’s because I worked in a corporate setting for so many years, and saw how the game is used by suck-ups as a marketing tool for themselves. And that kind of thing makes my freakin’ skin crawl. 

If you’re playing golf because you genuinely enjoy it, fine. But that’s clearly not the case with a lot of people. No, they’re just doing it so they can spend more time with people who might be able to help their careers. 

They go out there and put on a big show for everyone, with their laughable pants, etc., then commence to sucking ass like they’re trapped at the bottom of the ocean and the only oxygen source is located between the fleshy butt cheeks of a Vice President.

I’d work the rest of my life at a Subway sandwich shop making sandwiches for mayonnaise-loving pricks, before I’d do such a thing.

Plus, it’s shockingly expensive. We were at Dick’s Sporting Goods a few days ago, and wandered into the golf room. They have a putting green in there, and the Secrets and I played around for a little while. Then I looked at the price of the putter I’d picked up, and it said $149. I almost had a treatment effect.

Then I started walking around paying close attention to the price tags, and simply couldn’t believe it. 

Some of those clubs don’t even look like clubs; I picked up one that resembled a pot pie on a stick, and the shit cost hundreds of dollars. I found a driver priced at $899! What’s the thing made of, moon rocks and bald eagle?!

Back when I played I just had a set of clubs from Sears or Montgomery Ward, or whatever, and it was purely for fun. My friend Bill and I, and whoever else we could scrounge, would usually play at Coonskin, a crappy little par 3 near Charleston .

We weren’t very good, but we always had a good time, and sometimes got into low-grade trouble as a result. 

I remember being yelled at because Bill used to sometimes set a flag nowhere near the hole itself. No, he’d just drive it into the ground on the opposite side of the green. And some people clearly don’t appreciate that particular brand of comedy.

I also remember going through a period when I couldn’t hang on to the driver. I’d take a big swing, and the club would go sailing. One time it got stuck in a tree and I had to climb up there to get it down.

During this era my family and another family went to Cincinnati for a long weekend. We used to go there on a semi-regular basis to see Reds games, and sometimes visit the zoo or King’s Island amusement park.

We were staying at a motel in the suburbs, and right down the street was a very fancy-pants golf complex. I think they had more than one course there, a driving range, several restaurants, etc.

Somehow we talked our parents into taking us to the driving range one night. It was a big double-decker affair, and we younglings made a beeline for the top level. It felt like we were hitting balls off the roof of a building, and it was good stuff.

Within minutes a contest developed, where each of us was trying to drive a ball the farthest. So I was taking great big swings, really wailing.

And the club flew out of my hands again.

The thing went way up in the air and was making whoosh whoosh whoosh sounds, like helicopter blades. My brother pointed at it, and yelled, “Holy shit! Look at that!!” And every head turned in the direction of the airborne driver.

It felt like it stayed up there for minutes, just whirling and spinning. Then it came crashing down on the roof of a metal storage building, making a great clattering noise. It bounced once, vibrating and wiggling, and went flying into the patio area of a crowded restaurant.

Oh no!!

I seem to remember it collapsing one side of a beach umbrella, narrowly missing a couple having dinner, before finally coming to rest against the bar. But not before it sent people running in every direction, covering up, and doing a weird little crouch-scramble....

Yeah, they told me to get the fuck out, and I had to wait in the parking lot.

So there you go. I hadn’t planned to write only about golf today, but that’s the way it works out sometimes. Do you have any interesting stories to tell on the subject? Any drunken episodes that ended with a cart being washed out to sea, or anything like that? Use the comments below.

And I’ll leave you now with two fresh Smoking Fish sightings, right here. Thanks folks! I appreciate it. The gallery is exceedingly swollen now, and I couldn’t be prouder. Let’s keep it going!

See ya tomorrow.

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