I am not a golfer.  Of all the words that could be used to describe me (debonair, handsome, witty), golfer is not even in the top 200,000.  I am an adequate mini-putt participant but hand me anything beyond a bent putter and I am all at sea.

It is an activity that I have no desire to invest in.  If I want to go for a 4 hour walk, I will just walk (this is pretty unlikely but it could happen at some point in the future.  The distant future).  It is an extremely expensive hobby to take up both in terms of equipment and actually playing.  One of the 200,000 words that describes me much more accurately than “golfer” is “cheap.”

The whole culture of golfing is foreign to me as well.  It has a jargon all its own.  The only reason I know a golfing birdie from a piece of badminton equipment is through playing Tiger Woods on my laptop.  Eagles are large and majestic birds, not a means of keeping score.  Bogey is an affectionate nickname for a 40’s film star and double Bogey is what I will have when my cloning experiments are successful.

I have even given golfing a shot, if you’ll pardon the pun.  A few years ago, I went to a driving range with my father- and brothers-in-law (though at the time they were just my girlfriends’ family).  I didn’t even know then (and continue not to know) which ‘hand’ I am for golfing.  I’m pretty sure it’s the same as hockey and possibly the same as baseball but as a basically sedentary lifeform, I am not particularly clear on which side I’m on for those, either.  In any case, we went to the driving range on a really nice summer afternoon (much like today but perhaps slightly less sunny).  We each bought (or more accurately, rented) a bucket of balls and headed off to the tees or pads or whatever they’re called.  I manage to have approximately equal hooks and slices.  I can drill the ball pretty well but not in any particular direction.  The few that I actually hit straight went between 100 and 200 yards, generally, which I think is pretty good for a noodle-armed wastrel like myself.

My father-in-law had recently received or purchased a fairly heavy-duty driver (one of the big, meaty clubs you use for your first couple of shots as opposed to irons which you use to fend off attackers in the night).  I got to take a couple of shots with it and managed to smash myself in the toe with the ball.  I was wearing a pair of Converse Chuck Taylors which are not exactly noted for the rigidity and strength of their materials so I might just as well have been golfing barefoot because then at least I wouldn’t have ruined a half-pair of socks.  I’m really unsure how I managed it because the ball started off directly in front of me and then suddenly was trying to bond with my left big toe (which was suffering from being mildly ingrown at the time to boot and let me tell you FELT GREAT <- highlight to reveal that because it is kind of gross).

I have decided to take this event as clinching proof that golf is straight up not for me.  Every so often I think “man, that might actually be kind of fun” and then I remember all these things that I have just related and remember that I would rather sit inside in the dark.  It’s just healthier for me.

who’s in the bunker who’s in bunker