A Good Walk Spoiled

A certain man I know—lets call him ‘Mr. Bob’—might retire if he could avoid playing golf. Poor Bob, he’s both a terrible golfer and a tender-hearted guy who can’t say No when Uncle Albert calls.

“Are you free on Wednesday?” Uncle Albert asks. That’s Senior Discount Day at the local greens. Uncle Albert likes the Senior Discount Deals: twenty bucks for eighteen holes and a free hot dog before you tee off. Free small beverage, too.

“I’ve never been any good at golf,” Mr. Bob says. His clubs aren’t the high end whackers a guy can brag about. And Mr. B doesn’t want to order expensive custom golf shoes with little pegs so he wears his good sneakers. Slippery, amateurish, plus it’s very irritating to walk around in soggy socks.

The Tiger isn’t calling Mr. Bob for a casual round. He’s never had the time or money to take lessons or belong to a club. His younger brothers love golf and they’re so much better the last time they played—the only time—he got his ass handed to him. Not that sibling competition has anything to do with the golf. Just saying, is all.

Golf is supposed to be a relaxing day in the sunshine but those few times Mr. B. has played with Uncle Albert, he comes home tired and pissed off.

“Did you have fun, dear?” the wife asks. But she can see the grim answer on Mr. B.’s face.

“First we get paired up with a couple of jokers I hope I never see again. All they talk about is the local hockey team I don’t give a rat’s patootie about. Sometimes they’re retired geezers, like Uncle Albert, only interested in what other courses charge, who has senior discounts for anything, how much they pay to get the car’s oil changed. Dog shit money.

“And I can’t talk about politics or the news because Uncle Albert is such an idiot. An archconservative idiot. He hates Obama. He hates the Federal government. Immigrants. And taxes, boy does he hate taxes.

“Basically he’s cheap. I’m ashamed to say that because he’s my uncle.

“Lemme tell you how cheap. Say he hits one into the rough. We’re both pretty lousy players. He’s only a little better than I and.. well, I did hit a couple of long, straight drives today. Surprised myself. But no, not enough to inspire me. I’m too old to start over. And golf is really boring.

“You get behind some women, for example. Women talk. Yak yak yak while we wait. But we’re just as bad.

“Say Uncle Albert’s ball is buried in the rough which is very often. Now, the gentlemanly thing to do is not hold everybody up by looking for the god damn ball. You just take another ball out of your bag and tee it up as close to where yours went in as seems reasonable and get on with the game.

“Not Uncle Albert. He goes into the bushes, whacking away with his club which I don’t think is legal. Certainly not good for the bushes. He searches until he finds his ball. Meanwhile, he’s finding other balls. Lots of them! After several minutes he emerges with handsful of balls, wearing a big smile.

“’Won’t have to buy any new ones for quite a while,’ he says with satisfaction. This is a guy whose house is worth over two million and he’s always drives a Lexus. Jeez. Today while I was waiting for him I looked around the edge of the rough and found an old ball, myself. So old the cover was split and a little tree was growing out of it.

“I don’t know why Uncle Albert doesn’t have anybody else to play with. Lots of old farts have those kinds of political opinions and the time and money to find the Senior Discount hot dogs. For some reason it’s me.

“And for some reason I can’t say no. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’s a relative. If he heard I had quit working, I’d have to play every single week. Get real golf shoes. Listen to those hockey bores. I tell you, honey, no matter how I complain about my job, it beats golf all to blazes. I’d much rather hike by myself.”

And Mr. Bob does just that when he can fend off Uncle Albert’s invitation.

As Mark Twain said: Golf, a good walk spoiled.