Yeah, But It's So Nice To Be Outside, Isn't It?

I've made a lot of mistakes over the years.

Two big ones that stand out are pretty recent.

First, a couple years ago, I bought an old wooden boat.

I worked for a week getting it shipshape. I filled the gas tank. The filler tube leaked. I didn't realize it.

When I turned the key the engine compartment burst into flames.

I watched helplessly as my 1962 inboard Trojan flat top cruiser burned to the waterline.

Never should have bought that boat.

The second big one occurred this summer.

I started playing golf.

Well,that's not entirely true. I played my first round of golf in college in the late '70s.

Since then, I probably played an average of .5 rounds per year.

But over the last few years, I have been invited to play in these scramble fund-raiser things with different folks.

So this year I decided that I could escape lots of embarrassment by really learning the game.

I joined a golf league, bought a set of used clubs and took to the links.

It has been an exercise in abject frustration and futility.

But the problem is, I can't stop. No matter how bad the course beats me up, I can't wait to try again. Always assuming - incorrectly, of course - that I will do better the next time.

I've thought about lessons, but I'm too cheap. You could play 27 holes for the price of a lesson.

I have even dragged my wife into the abyss by inviting her to play along with me. She "enjoys" the game now, too. We get frustrated together. There's a lot of truth to "misery loves company."

So I'm perusing the sports section the other day, looking at a story about the girls golf sectional at Rozella Ford golf course in Warsaw.

This Kari Wortinger girl, a senior at Wawasee High School, shot a 45 on the front nine and a 39 on the back nine for an 84.

I asked the sports guys how many Mulligans that included. They said none.

I said, "No, really, how many times did she hit two off the tee or rehit a chip that only went a couple inches?"

They looked at me as if I had lost my mind. They assured me that her score was legitimate.

I played at Rozella. I shot a 54 - with a couple Mulligans.

This drives me crazy. How can this be? A 17-or 18-year-old high school kid shoots 15 strokes better than I do.

I don't understand.

Something else I don't understand is why people are always giving me dirty looks on the golf course.

This is usually after one of my errant shots has just sailed over their heads.

I always yell "FORE" as violently as I possibly can. But that doesn't seem to appease them.

When I played at Rozella, for example, I was way right of the fairway on hole number 3, about 200 yards away from the green. I hit a four iron.

It sliced a little, but it got up in the air pretty good, which made me happy - at first.

The closer it got to the green, the farther right it went. It came down on a cart path heading to the fourth tee and bounced over the heads of these two guys getting ready to tee off.

They were teed off, all right.

I was playing with Greg Jones, the sports editor. (I don't like playing with Jones. He always beats me.) We both yelled our lungs out. But it was windy and we were 200 yards away.

They couldn't hear us.

I've thought about carrying one of those marine-type air horns in my golf bag. Or maybe passing out hard hats and safety goggles to the foursome playing ahead of me.

When we got up near the green they asked us to be a bit more careful. We politely apologized.

That's all well and good, I suppose, but there's no way I can be any more careful. Not in this stage of my game, anyway. When I hit the ball, there's really no way of knowing for sure where it's going to land.

In fact, that shot on number three only missed the green by about 25 yards. Heck, that's a good shot for me from 200 yards away.

I played in a scramble at Maxwelton in Syracuse in July.

My team was in the rough just beside the 18th fairway about 40 yards from the green.

It was a bright, calm summer day. There were several people relaxing on the deck overlooking the 18th green.

I pulled out my lob wedge. It used to be my favorite club. I always hit the lob wedge well. This was the perfect distance for my lob wedge.

The experts always tell you to visualize your shot before you take the swing.

I stood behind the ball and visualized a towering lob wedge shot. The ball would stick on the green and back up slightly, propelled by the backspin imparted by my crisp lob wedge stroke.

I imagined those people watching from the deck saying "nice shot" as I strolled up to 18th green.

I addressed the ball. I took a mighty swing. I bladed it.

My foursome and I watched in horror as the ball took off. All four of us simultaneously screamed "FORE!!!"

Those assembled on the deck watched in horror as the ball rocketed right for them. They covered their heads in fear and scrambled to get out of the way.

Fortunately, the ball flew over them and struck the roof of the clubhouse. It bounced over the clubhouse and landed near the cart shed.

When I left the 18th green, a young man who I assume worked at Maxwelton handed me my golf ball. "Here's your ball, sir," he said, looking at me with a puzzled, annoyed expression.

I looked at my ball. It had roofing tar on it. They tell me I'm the first one to hit over the clubhouse from the 18th fairway at Maxwelton. I refuse to believe them.

Golfers talk about having to fix their slice. I talk about having to fix my slice, hook, top, sky and drub.

I have often thought that if there is a golfer anywhere near where I'm aiming, I should try to hit him. That would virtually assure his safety.

I spend more time in the water than Flipper. I spend more time in the sand than the Rat Patrol.

Does anyone know if Kari Wortinger gives cheap golf lessons?