And I Got Naked At The 19th Hole

There are only two things worse than golf: golfers and golf jokes. I was cornered at the gym yesterday by a package deal of the two worse things: a golfer telling golf jokes. As he yammered on, I drifted into one of those B-movie dream sequences and fondly recalled the now-interred Wonder Bread days of my previous life; specifically, the day I conquered the Sport of Kings.

I have played golf once in my life. About ten years ago, I was working for a "Big 6" public accounting firm. I don’t think there are six of them anymore, due to mergers and lawsuit-induced insolvencies. There would be even fewer if not for the fact that the public believes the Enron/Arthur Andersen affair was an isolated, aberrant situation. The same public that believes in Santa Claus, Creationism and the Easter Bunny. The same public that believes Bill Frist is presidential material. The same public that believes the U.S.A. is a democracy. If you don’t get my gist, you have probably already stopped reading this to chase down that despicably offensive porn popup, just to solidify your stance on the censorship issue.

Oh yeah, golf. I had always blown off the firm’s golf playdays and spent those days far away from other accountants, goofing off in other unproductive ways. This particular year, I was shamed and chastised into participation. If I were a true team player, I would get out there and build camaraderie with the bloated-belly CPAs that shared accommodations with me in the cubicle jungle. We’d be one happy family the rest of the year, chasing deadlines and time budgets and documenting our lives in six-minute increments for the good of the firm. All for one and one for all. And golf would be the tie that binds.

I was planted in a foursome with a kid who was a heart-attack-serious-little-white-ball-hitter. He wasn’t pleased with me. Nobody told me I was supposed to show up at this thing with clubs and balls. I rented clubs, and I borrowed a ball from the kid. It disappeared in the forest. He wasn’t pleased with me. I borrowed another ball. It drowned. He wasn’t pleased with me. I peppered that landscape all day with little dimpled mortars. He wasn’t pleased with me. How much can those stupid little balls cost, anyway?

I had not been informed of the dress code. I had not been issued pink pants with a stretchy waistband, so I used my own judgment in choosing an ensemble suitable for a go-cart ride around a park. Cut-off jeans and boots. Freeballin’ so as not to impede the drainage of crack sweat. It was hot and sunny, and I don’t wear a shirt when it’s hot and sunny. Would a yarn tassel have made my Yankees cap more appropriate?

On the third hole, I made an effort to engage my playmates in conversation. I wondered aloud about how many holes we would be blessed to play on this fine summer day. Actually, I asked, "Why the fuck do we have to do eighteen of these? They’re all the fucking same! Why not eight? Why not two?"

We were playing what the pink-pant set calls "best ball," which means the kid drove, chipped and putted a par round of golf and I got credit for it! Meanwhile, I swatted, kicked and threw his golf balls anywhere I wanted to. "Betcha I can hit that cart on the next fairway. Why do I have to aim for that flag way down there when this one’s closer?"

I got a trophy. First place. No shit. That kid is a skilled golfer! Kinda cranky, though.

I retired at the top of my game. No Michael Jordan bullshit for me. The trophy sits on a shelf next to my CPA certificate. Every time I look at that square foot of proud accomplishment, I feel like a chubby little affluent guy on Lipitor.

Ah, what could have been…