Viewpoint by Eric poe/sports editor
Golf, the geriatric sport of choice, is the No. 3 reason I can’t wait to retire (although I’m 20). It follows watching reruns of Matlock and enjoying practically free meals at Luby’s.
My relationship with golf isn’t all birdies and fun golf cart stunts, though. Golf and I have a Ross and Rachel-esque relationship. One day I love the smell of a freshly cut green, and another day the sight of a tee box makes me boil over in anger. As my 5-iron that I routinely fling after a bad shot can attest, golf frustrates the heck out of me.
My affair with golf started when my dad would drag my sister and me out into the heat to the annual Colonial pro golf tournament. Between standing longer than a British palace guard and sweating enough for four men in a sauna, I came to appreciate the peculiar game.
But I also developed a temper on the course. I came from the Happy Gilmore school of golf. I was petulant and immature. I would scream, curse, kick bags and throw clubs. I am proud of none of this. OK, maybe I was a little proud when I would hurl my 3-wood farther, and straighter for that matter, than my tee shot.
Then, amazingly, I started to have fun playing. Roughly two months ago, I was at my local driving range hitting shots that would make even Charles Barkley chuckle.
Out of the shadows, a Bagger Vance-like character appeared and diagnosed the many problems with my swing. After a few more pointers and roughly $150 spent at the driving range, I was playing like a young, but much more handsome, Jack Nicklaus.
Golf is strange. It takes me on a roller coaster of emotions. But I find it is worth it whenever, among the dozen of horrifyingly terrible shots, I hit one that would make even Tiger Woods blush, and not much makes him blush anymore.
As for golf and me, I will inexplicably continue to shell out oodles of cash to play, will most likely thrown many more tantrums but will still try to enjoy the agonizing game.
Contact The Collegian if you would like to play a round of golf with yours truly. I suggest bringing a helmet, though. Who knows where I’ll throw my next club.
