Golf

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Today I am grateful for golf.  Not that I’ll ever play again.  I was banned for driving the awesome cart in an unsafe, but very fun, cart-polo manner.  I want one of those carts.  Once a week golf takes his cronies and my delighted husband out of my house while they hit the links.  Unless the blasted rain betrays them, and me, and they don’t play. . .like today.  Grrrrr.

My husband will watch beach volleyball and not just the women, which we all know he watches for obvious reasons on the sports channel.  The man will sit for hours watching some doofus fishing, without benefit of fresh air and sunshine.  He won’t miss baseball, football, hockey, soccer, basketball, golf or even nose-picking if they declared it a sport and aired it.  Golf is the worst.  Matches take 200 hours to complete.  Children in kindergarten finish all six years of elementary school while a golf match is going on. 

Back in the day, before the DVR opened up our lives and gave me my husband back for social events, he was watching a huge golf match on TV and didn’t want to leave. But we had a long drive and needed to go.  “Okay,” he said, as he reluctantly got in the car.  “But I want to listen to this on the radio.”  Okay.  I agreed, but I wasn’t happy.  He knew it.  A husband always knows.  Watching golf on TV is like watching money grow.  You want more, you know you want more, so you wait and wait with high expectations, only to be disappointed in the end.  Golf on the radio?  Shoot me now!  Here’s how it goes.

“Clunk!”  (The ball has been hit.  Build to a high pitch tone.)  “oooooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOAAAHHHHH, YES!”  (Good hit.  Right on the green.  No one actually announces this, you just know by the crowd’s reaction) 

Or it might go like this.

“Clunk!”  (Start high pitched and bring down to a guttural groan.)  “ooooooahhhhheeeeeerrrrrrraaaahhhhhhh, Oooooh!”  (Bad hit.  Nowhere near the green.  That ball is either in a tree, under a tree, in an azalea bush, swimming, or on the beach.  This golfer should pack up and go home.)

Repeat for 18 holes.  Seriously.  About thirty minutes into the trip I looked at him, like only a wife can, and said, “Are you kidding me with this?  Golf on TV is beyond deadly.  On the radio it’s criminal!  I feel like I’ve taken a sleeping pill.”  Even he admitted it was true.

There is no golf on TV today and for that I’m grateful.  I just wish it hadn’t rained so he would be gone. . .er. . .playing golf, which he so enjoys!