People Like Me Should Never Play Golf

I have been told by experts in such matters that on a golf course I am a clear and present danger to all living things as well as any inanimate object within the range of half a mile.

Much of this stems from my attitude toward the game. While the purists maintain the purpose of golf is to progress a dimpled ball down a fairway toward a tiny hole, I see other possibilities. I view it more as a liberating experience, a chance to free little white spheres to roam the world.

To this end I distribute my shots liberally. Some I send out on environmental odysseys to explore the nests and burrows of woodland creatures. Others I hook gleefully toward the parking lot to acquaint themselves with the cars and trucks who slumber there. Still others, I send romping across tree-lined suburban avenues in search of vinyl-clad dwellings and the neighbors therein. In this light, I view golf as primarily social.

I swear every time I swing a club, people gather.

I appreciate my celebrity and delight in watching the eyes of my fans trace the corkscrew path of my shots. I share with them my various techniques and enjoy their feedback as they wander off muttering, "I didn't even know that was possible."

It is this social aspect of the game I find most rewarding. Golf is really about the pageantry and pleasure of strolling across a big green lawn in the company of oddly dressed people. It is one of the few places where society allows one to wear bizarre fashion and absurd colors without suffering the lash of catcalls.

To that end, I have been able to make full use of our local second-hand stores, rescuing from their bins the cast off road safety colors on the 1980's jogging and bicycling crazes.

Like I say, when I golf - people take notice.

But sadly in this past year, on the vigorous advice of several lawyers due to some unfortunate and misunderstood events, my game is officially comprised of accompanying my son and carrying his bag. This suits me fine for he is a youth of infinite patience who generous permits his father to hack at a ball when we are beyond view of the clubhouse.

I delight in these outings and am proud of his ability to judge the complex nature of his old man's game. He can predict with astounding accuracy at the very instant of a ball streaking skyward, "that will be a house-shot."

It is in these moments the bond of our affection grows. We stand together father and son, amid a vast field of green under a blue sky and yellow sun, sharing a moment of anticipation, waiting for the resounding "thwack" to announce yet again he is right and we best move along - quickly.

I must say though I have improved and no longer pepper the unfortunate neighbors with the artillery of my tee shots. I now favor water hazards and so much so that my boy claims I give the fish headaches. To emphasis his point, he will often wade grinning into a pond and lift aloft a comatose carp as evidence of my impacts on nature.

In celebration of this unique form of angling and to honor our times on the links, last Christmas he presented me with a gift he had crafted especially for the occasion, a golf-ball inscribed with word "Bass-Master".

In conclusion I know that in my hands a titanium club is a high-tech implement of destruction and acknowledge I must refrain from launching projectiles in public places, but I so love the doing of it that I am reluctant to give it up.

I once felt much the same about hunting. I did not so much like the shooting of things as I savored tromping through the colors of fall dressed in unconvincing camouflage.

Eventually I found I enjoyed hunting just as much unarmed as armed. Many friends, neighbors and even strangers have suggested this should be a guide for my future in golf.

We will see.

© Greg Schiller, 2008

Author: Greg Schiller