Sorry, Golf.

Golf season is always over for me, but post season baseball is starting soon. The NFL and college football is also beginning, but I would like to provide a sweet conclusion to golf.

Admitting that I am a less than average golfer is a selfishly phony compliment for myself.  Most of my clubs end up in trees or water.  Some people say I’m impatient.  Others think I should’t be allowed to play publicly.

I wouldn’t say I’m abjectly terrible, but I’ve lost to groups of people over the age of eighty and younger than six who can’t keep score. That’s my excuse.

Golf has left me with one lasting memory when I knew I could never compete with AARP members or children.  It was one of my favorite memories of golf.

While attempting to golf alone, only out of embarrassment, I was, fortunately, joined with a duo I had never met.  One was probably eighty six years old, and his granddaughter was probably five.

The granddaughter was equally as bad at driving their golf cart as I was at playing the game.  The grandfather, insanely, allowing his granddaughter to drive the cart, was just as abysmal as me on the course.  So, I knew we’d enjoy ourselves as equals.

After twenty or so strokes, the grandfather would finally land his ball on the green.  At that point, he was too tired to putt, so he allowed his granddaughter to putt for him.  She was happy to accommodate him, but she also felt sorry for the ball.  After each of her thirteen putts on the green, she would, with great sincerity, say, “Sorry ball.”

It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen on a golf course.

That’s a pretty sweet conclusion.


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