Golf: A Game about Making Excuses
Although I’m actually a little afraid to say this out loud, I think the warm weather finally might have arrived. The reason I won’t say these words out loud? Because the universe listens and lives to crush warm weather hopes.
So why am I okay writing it? Easy. The universe has very poor reading skills and usually gives up before getting to the end of a sentence. Plus, what with all the planets and stars and comets and stuff, I’m pretty sure the universe has ADHD. So even if it did manage to read the entire first sentence in this blog, it’ll get distracted.
“So, he thinks the warm weather has arrived,” the universe says to itself. “Well, I’ll show him. I am so gonna…ohh…Jupiter. Pretty.”
Then it’ll take a nap.
The universe is sooooo like my aunt at Thanksgiving.
Anyway. I’m excited for the warm weather because…
Sure, I get that it also means picnics and bathing suits and romantic walks in the warm rain and flowers and weeding gardens. But all that stuff is just something you do to occupy your time between games of golf.
I like golf. Why?
Because, regardless of what the PGA and the LPGA and the local club pro might tell you, golf is NOT a game of skill, finesse, patience, or the majesty of the perfect shot. It’s not about some announcer whispering while Tiger Woods lines up a putt and the people at home scooch to the edge of their couches. It’s not even about wearing ridiculous clothes and riding up and down hills in little amusement park–looking carts.
Golf is a game about making excuses.
It’s true. A golfer will hit a shot and immediately tell you what he meant to do—as opposed to what he just did. If he hit a great shot, he’ll tell you why it should have been even better. Or he’ll confess, in an accusatory way that makes it somehow your fault, that he was hitting with the wrong club.
Even a perfect shot, like a hole in one, comes with excuses. He’ll say something like, “I’m surprised. My weight was on the wrong foot. And I was pretty sure I hit it fat. And when I beseeched the demon gods of golf, I didn’t think I had enough plaid on my shorts.”
No other sport, except maybe fishing—which most of us would argue isn’t a sport at all—allows the people who play it to explain away everything they do.
So this year, I decided to take my golf game to the next level. I’m gonna skip the whole playing part and just talk about it. Why settle for making excuses when you can make up the whole thing?
I call it, “Better Golf through Fantasy,” and I just won the upcoming US Open while I wrote this last sentence.