A lot of people tell me I should take up golf.
"But it's not a sport," I tell them. "Walking is a sport. Hitting a ball with a stick is a sport. Combining the two does not make it a sport."
Over the past few years, I've tried to avoid golf because of one particular incident from my past. Something that has haunted me well into adulthood and has prevented me from picking up a golf club for over 27 years.
It was the first time I tried golfing. I was nine years old,I had seen the pros golf on TV and had even watched my father golf.
"There's nothing to it," I told my three friends, Pat and Eddie Peterson, and Larry Van Dorr, as we prepared to hit some golf balls in the backyard. Eddie was the oldest, at ten. Pat, his younger brother, and Larry were both eight years old.
Since Eddie was older, he should have gone first. But since they were my dad's clubs, I got to go first. There were only two or three balls in the golf bag, so the rule was that one person would hit them as far as they could, then turn around and hit them back.
We lined up at one end of the backyard, confident that we would be clearing 200 yard drives. Never mind that the backyard was only 75 feet long, there were trees everywhere, and we had arms like sticks.
I held the club and lined up, just like I had seen the golfers on TV. I adjusted my stance and wiggled my butt, just like on TV. I swung the club back and brought it streaking through the air, exactly like the pros.
I felt a strong, satisfying THWACK as the club connected with the ball. The ball soared majestically into the air a good eight feet and traveled an amazing 90 feet into the neighbor's yard. My three so-called friends started laughing.
"Shut up! At least it went straight." My face was burning, but I was determined to go on. Until the day I die, I will never know how that ball went straight.
I went through the motion two other times, both times sending the ball on a 90 foot journey into the neighbor's yard. Then I hit three or four plastic whiffle golf balls (the kind that nine year olds normally should be using when playing in the backyard).
"Okay, now hit 'em back," Pat said.
"Get out of the way first." It was getting dark, and our parents would be calling us soon. We had to hurry. We walked down to the other end of the yard, but young boys being as lazy as they are, the other three stopped about two-thirds of the way.
"Move!" I shouted as I teed up the first regular golf ball. Given my past success, the three boys moved aside a few feet and waited for me to whack the balls straight back down the fairway.
I went through the same motions again. I held the club and lined up with the ball, adjusted my stance, and wiggled my butt. But this time, I was determined to hit the ball farther than before, putting an end to my friends' teasing about my weak golf swing. I swung the club way back, and brought it streaking around to smash the ball into my other neighbor's yard.
It's at this point of the story that I'm reminded of Murphy's Law and the idea that "anything that can go wrong, WILL go wrong." I suppose the golf corollary is: Anything that should not be struck by a golf ball, WILL be struck by a golf ball.
At age nine, despite only having had a fourth grade education, that very thought leapt into my mind as the ball went screaming at 8,000 miles an hour and hit my friend Pat right in his privates.
"Oh man, I'm in trouble now," was my next thought.
Pat screamed with pain as only a boy hit in the privates with a golf ball can scream, grabbed the afflicted area in question, and dropped to his knees in the worst agony he had ever known in eight years of life.
I ran over to Pat, apologizing profusely, but at the same time laughing inside, because what are the odds of a golf ball hitting that spot? Eddie and Larry were thinking the same thing, although they were laughing out loud. Young boys have absolutely no sympathy for fallen comrades.
Then Pat did something completely amazing. When I got close enough, he leapt to his feet, grabbed my golf club, and started chasing me around the yard. Luckily, I was a faster runner, plus I had the added advantage of having not been hit in the privates with a golf ball, so I was able to stay out of his reach.
Since Pat and Eddie lived right behind me, Pat' mother heard his initial scream and came out to investigate. She could only imagine what had happened when she saw her younger son, with tears streaming down his face and a look of murderous rage, chasing me with a golf club, while her older son and another friend rolled around on the ground, laughing their butts off.
Thankfully, Pat was rational enough to stop chasing me when his mother yelled at him to stop. In between sobs, he explained the events that had transpired, which were verified by Eddie and Larry.
"They should have been standing behind me," I added.
"Yes, they should have," she said. "But you should have waited until they were there before you hit the ball."
I knew there was no point in arguing with Mom Logic, so I apologized to Pat gain and vowed that I would never hit a golf ball directly at a person ever again.
