So I'll just go ahead and say it. I am not an athletic person. I don't particularly like contact sports such as basketball. And it's not because I'm not an aggressive person, it's because everybody seems to sweat...a lot. And since I suck, I'm always matched up against the 273 pound guy (oh yeah, he has a mustache) who invariably feels the need to take off his shirt. In that situation, I'll let him dribble past me. I ain't touching that.
I'm more of a loner sport kind of person. I played tennis in high school. In case you've never seen real tennis matches before, it is a fantastically exciting sport. Not so much because of the exciting gameplay (come on, it's oversized ping pong) but because you've never heard cussing like this. And nobody gets in trouble for it because it's not directed at the other person, or the ref, or the dozens of cheering fans. The guys are yelling at themselves. "Get to the f***in ball you s**t for brains donkey f***er! My great aunt's left nut could have hit that f***n ball back! F**k! F**K! ...... dammit ..... aargh ...... OK, 15-30."Naturally, the reader might assume that I must enjoy golf as well. That would be a wrong assumption. I like golf movies. Legend of Bagger Vance, Tin Cup, Caddyshack. All great films. But the sport itself is dull on a level I can't fully comprehend. If you ask my Dad, though, he would say I love it. In middle school I would beg him to bring me out with him to the courses. He never seemed to notice that after the fourth hole I would get bored and stop playing. He also never noticed that when his back was turned, the golf cart was gone. That's because I would be tearing it up on the back nine, doing donuts on the fairway. My favorite pastime was to wait for someone to hit a ball over a hill where they couldn't see where it landed, drive up, and snatch the ball. The next ten minutes were spent giggling as senior citizens started crawling under bushes and climbing trees trying to find their Titleist.
Of course, if my Dad ever finds out about this, he isn't one to talk about golf course etiquette. He used to be the real competitive type, and took the sport WAY too hard-core. He used to go to driving range and videotape himself. After each shot, he would say "Shank" or "Good Shot" depending on how he did. And then he would watch himself on TV for hours, and all we could hear through the house was "Shank....Shank....Shank.....Good Shot....Shank....Shank...." He wasn't very good.
Well, it was at the height of this obsession that he took me out to the course one day. I was about eight at the time. And after an excellent opening drive, he shanked (big surprise) the next shot. Now most people, given this situation, would have swallowed their anger, perhaps be a little withdrawn for a while. My father, however, decided to go a different route. He yelled some kind of obscenity that I think is banned in the Eastern United States, and hurled his nine iron behind him. This would have been traumatizing enough for a nine year old, but the story gets better. There so happened to be a fellow golfer about forty feet behind us who unexpectedly received a golf club to the face.
I think my Dad has lightened up a little since the lawsuit.
Byah!
Rob
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