I have outlined some of the few reasons which will cause me to emerge from my windowless underground lair of my own volition, but the more I try to nail this list down, the more it seems to grow.
If this continues and word gets out, I may face the ignominy of being tossed out of the Hermit League. Scandalous!
I feel safe divulging this information to you fine people, however, since my handy squirrel analyst reports indicate that there are approximately two of you regularly perusing these ravings.
Even so, in the interest of honesty I must own up and add golf to the list of things I like to do that can’t really be effectively done inside my lair. So, the running tally now looks like this:
- Family doings (Niece Tossing)
- Racing, Persuing Adventures and Absorbing Nature
- Riding bikes
- Foot or bike races
- Behaving in the manner of a buffoon (with my friends)
- Absorbing culture (Art, books, etc)
- Golf (new)
- Talking to Girls
One could make a case that girls can be effectively talked to over the internet, but I remain disdainful of internet dating even though I have profiles out there. I seem to always maintain a nagging suspicion that the person I am talking to is actually a 60 year old man, or a Nigerian scammer, or both. It’s really best to talk to girls in person, I find, even when your game is in a rebuilding year as mine is.
Luckily, as my friend Ashley has asserted, I have a “decent face for a guy”.
I enjoy the benefit of no such saving natural attributes in golf, however. I was on the golf team in school, but it seems that the ability that I remembered having back then is a product of my imagination based not at all in reality. And yet, I enjoy playing the game for some reason.
I think a lot of my enjoyment of it has to do with the relationship I have imagined between myself, the ball, and the golf course. I think of myself as an American intelligence officer in France late in World War II. The ball is a member of the French Resistance.
We’re both fighting the Germans (the course), but the ball, being French, still doesn’t want to really do what I want it to do all the time. I try to convince it that I know what’s best by talking to it as any American would to a foreigner in their native land, in loud English.
“Okay, ball” I say, teeing it up “You’re gonna go to the top of that hill, there, right in the middle of the fairway.”
The ball sneers and mutters something that I’m unable to decipher with my limited French as it smokes a cigarette. I try to stay positive, wind up, and send it along its path to get the better of the imaginary Germans, but some times these missions work out better than other times.
My friend Tony, who is a pro-level golfer, claims that playing the game anymore for him is boring. His swing is so practiced that each is indistinguishable from the last, whereas mine are each a new ungainly horror, like a man experiencing a standing grand mal seizure while simultaneously fighting a swarm of bees.
The only reason I haven’t been asked by the community to stop is that a line of trees around the course protect any passing children from the sight of my golf. One look would surely cause severe emotional harm, or possibly a dangerous fit of laughter.
I confess it, I do still love to play. Ah well.
C’est la guerre!