How come no one told me there was beer on the golf course?
“Golf is a good walk spoiled” are words Mark Twain may or may not have actually said, but I know this much: The dude didn’t have the benefit of a golf cart. Or an attractive young lady in a second cart selling beer. Or a driver the size of Andre the Giant’s fist and which barely weighed as much as Twain’s mustache.
Yep. I played a round of golf the other day. It’s the first time I played in well over 20 years, possibly more, and it’s the first full round I played since high school.
I had no business being on the golf course. I wore sneakers instead of golf shoes, a T-shirt instead of a collared shirt, and I didn’t know you could drink beer.
I mean really: How did I not know you can drink beer on the course? And not only can you drink beer, they are also selling beer. The young lady I mentioned above? She was selling beer. I mean, come on. Come. On.
So already, I fell in love (with the game). Hanging out, whacking balls, drinking beer. Did I mention it was 10:50 a.m. when I cracked the first one? Day drinking! Come on. COME ON!
Anyway, how I got here? My buddy Ben won a round at Mountain View in Ewing (a county course) at a Tricky Tray type of event that I attended (I am so old) and so he invited me along in his foursome which also included Mike and Mario. I say their names here to cement this as an event that actually, truly happened.
I was invited to this game two weeks ago and inexplicably said “yes.” I’m not usually a “yes” when it comes to things like this. I’m more of a “meh.” But for some reason, I jumped at the opportunity.
I immediately regretted it, because
I mean really: How did I not know you can drink beer on the course? And not only can you drink beer, they are also selling beer . ... I mean, come on. Come. On.
now I had to spend the next two weeks stressing about the fact I was about to play golf for the first time in over two decades and I was going to embarrass myself in front of friends.
As it turns out, I didn’t need to worry.
I crushed it.
OK fine, maybe “crushed it” is strong.
I played OK.
All right, all right, “played OK” might be pushing things.
How about this: Not completely terrible.
I actually hit a bunch of decent shots, a few good drives, and one or two nice approaches. I putted like Mark Twain (the dead version) and that got annoying, but …
Last hole. The 18th. I’m struggling. Too much sun, too little water, the just right amount of beer. I step up to hit my tee shot. And … glory. Long and high and far and straight. It was a picture-perfect drive. Could’ve been longer, but whatever. It looked good.
And right there, I got golf. I got why people get hooked. That one shot, perfectly hit, and you’re convinced you could do it every time. It’s near-transcendent. (That might be the beers talking).
Anyway, my next two shots went a combined 30 yards without going airborne, which sucked a lot of life out of that first shot, but I’ll tell you what: In another 20 years when I go out again, it’s the perfect tee shot I’ll remember.
That, and the beer. Seriously: How did I not know there was beer and beer girls? You readers are doing a terrible job of keeping me informed. Just terrible.