I have no shame. On or off the golf course.
This week, I ended up in the Rivard Golf Course in Brooksville, Fla. for my semiannual outing on the links. Naturally, with this schedule, I am one of the worst golfers ever, if not the very worst. I don’t even keep score. Got it?
I have golf clubs. I even have a glove and bizarre, black-and-white golf shoes, which look like something Pat Boone would wear to a prom. I also have zero talent.
The mountainous Goose River Golf Course in Rockport is a mere half-mile from Cobb Manor. But I avoid it like the plague.
In Florida, you do as the golfers do. Somehow, I ended up golfing this week in Florida with two guys from the Bible, Paul and Mark. Well, they hit drives like they were from the Bible, anyway.
It took me two, sometimes three shots to catch up with their titanic hits. Short on talent, I started to compensate with a ton of whining. I suggested I should hit from the women’s tees. I offered to wear a skirt. I didn’t care. They were killing me.
Mark would hit a drive so far that I could not see it come down. Now they started calling me “Mr. Magoo” for my weak eyes on top of my weak drives. Paul would hit one even further.
They killed any ideas of hitting from the women’s tees. But they raised no objection when I started hitting off the tee on the fairways. Golfing etiquette prescribes that you use tees only on the driving area. I didn’t care. I had to keep up.
Normally, I bring a dozen golf balls and simply walk off the course when they are gone. But Mark bought a fistful of golf balls, including some of the yellow variety which I could actually see in maximum light conditions.
I had to keep golfing. Much to my surprise, I started hitting some interesting golf shots. Nothing like the Biblical Twins, of course, but decent for me. I had watched the Golf Channel and discovered the mysteries of the backswing, instead of just lunging at the ball. The more I imitated the pros, the better I hit, especially off the tee… on the fairway.
I even started keeping score. They insisted.
Then Mark and Paul got into heavy competition. When Mark hit a titanic drive on one hole, Paul was determined to top him. He did, too, after six dribbles off the tee. We didn’t count them, naturally.
As they started falling apart, I, miraculously, started getting a little better. I actually dropped 11 strokes from my previous day’s outing. I tied Paul, but Mark (who kept score) was a few strokes ahead.
Since his mother-in-law, Marcia Faulkingham, sort of runs the clubhouse, I was not about to argue the scorecard results. (She is in her 80s and she has beaten me, too.) Strangely, Marcia and half the golfers at Rivard are from the Bangor area.
With my recent success, I might start taking this sport a little more seriously. Maybe I will start hitting a few buckets of balls at the driving range opposite Goose River. Maybe I will subscribe to Golf Magazine for some tips. Maybe I will start watching the Golf Channel instead of the Military Channel and the latest news from Stalingrad.
Maybe I will get up really early, maybe sunrise, and start hitting The Goose a few times a week. If no one is watching, I might hit from the women’s tees.
Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at firstname.lastname@example.org.