Posted on Sun, Apr. 20, 2008
My kind of clubs
Not long ago, I wrote a column about how several sports are not much fun to watch on television. However, I should add the caveat that for some of those sports, I'm still willing to watch one or two major events.
In auto racing, I often pay attention to the Daytona 500 and Indy 500. In tennis, I enjoy the slow clay of the French Open where rallies last more than two swings. And, of course, in synchronized swimming, I always watch... well... never mind.
In golf, it's the Masters. Partly, it's because it's a major and golf's first major of the year. But, mainly, it's because it's Georgia's tournament. Something about all those azaleas in bloom is sweetly Southern -- not as sweetly Southern as Dublin's Redneck Games, but close.
Those familiar whispers of the commentators signal the unofficial end of chilly weather (or so I thought until this past week). And the sound of balls plopping into the water at the 16th hole of Augusta National signal that it's almost time for me to plop my own... well, almost time for me to hit the pool again.
And just as the French Open always gave me the itch to hit the tennis courts again, seeing portions of the Masters again this year has given me the itch to hit the golf course -- albeit a slightly less hoity-toity one. Then again, that itch could be all those skeeter bites I got while kayaking Buck Creek back home last weekend.
I really do love to play golf, and not just the kind that involves windmills and dinosaurs. But I just can't afford it, being a part of the dying middle class. Besides, it's gotten embarrassing to hit the course in my rusty Arnold Palmer signature series clubs. I think he signed them about a hundred years after they were made.
They were and are still probably good enough for my game. That game involved many days of sneaking onto the Montezuma Country Club course and hitching rides on my friend's backfiring, gas-powered golf cart that went about 45 mph. Also many days in Americus of tagging along with the newspaper's former grumpy paste-up man Mr. Robert as he wound down with a 12-pack, 18 holes and one long-lasting cigar. Even bumped into stars Moe Bandy and Billy Joe Royal by accident during one outing. Now that I think about those worn-out clubs, I'm kind of fond of them.
I got those clubs long ago at a garage sale. Fred and Wilma were moving out of 301 Cobblestone Way at the time. And those clubs and I have spent many a day on golf courses... though many of those courses were more likely just open fields with at least 18 groundhog holes. Hmm, maybe that's why Mr. Jim Bob used to shoot his 12-gauge over my head during my rounds. Cost me several strokes on my game.
Had to buy a lot of new underwear, too.
Contact Chris Johnson at 706-320-4403 or cjohnson@ledger-enquirer.com
