Golf Fairway Rage
by Bill Hogan
FAIRWAY RAGE.
May 23, 2003
by Bill Hogan
Just one time before I kick, I'd like to take a ride
in my car – doesn't matter where to, the drugstore,
the gas station, the post office – without encountering
another driver. There seems to be little in life that
is more aggravating than being on the road these days.
Bad drivers, slow drivers, aggressive drivers, old drivers,
inexperienced drivers dominate the highways and byways.
And with the possible exception of Mayberry, no city
is too small to be exempt from tie ups, construction,
fender-benders, even rush hour traffic.
Some people drive too fast, some too slow. Some change
lanes without signaling, some ride for miles with the
blinker on without ever making a turn. There are the
tailgaters and those who find some comfort in straddling
the white line between lanes. A driver's license has
become a permit to cut you – and me - off.
Common courtesy has flown out the window along with
the hamburger wrappers and empty soda bottles. It's
no wonder that more and more people are walking into
court facing assault or murder charges claiming "road
rage" as a defense.
There was a time when climbing behind the wheel and
hitting the road was a great way to cool off, relax
and collect your thoughts. Put the top down, turn the
stereo up and drive. It was soothing, it was calming
and it was fun. It was like playing a round of golf
on a sunny afternoon.
Now, a quick trip for a loaf of bread can be as irritating
as – well – playing a round of golf on a
sunny afternoon. The fairway has become as congested
as the highway. Filled with the very same inconsiderate
boobs you're compelled to give the finger to on the
way to the 7-Eleven.
It seems like every hacker that ever bought a used Big
Bertha at a garage sale has suddenly gotten the urge
to hit the links. Very few of which find it necessary
to learn or adhere to the number one rule in golf: etiquette.
First of all, if you can't get around the course in
four and a half hours, get yourself a bowling ball.
There's a big difference between being a bad golfer
and being an intolerably slow golfer.
I played a round last week with three friends –
it took five hours. That wouldn't have been too bad
if not for the fact that we finally gave up after 14
holes. It was either quit, or walk up to the foursome
in front of us and knock their heads together like Mo
used to do to Larry and Curley.
How long can you look for a lost ball? It's not your
wedding ring; it's a $1.25 piece of hard rubber. Especially
since they could never figure out exactly where to look
in the first place. Four idiots spread out over sixty
yards of three-foot tall weeds. Drop another one, Champ.
It bordered on comical during one endless greenside
search when the true Einstein of the group actually
suggested that someone should check to see if the ball
went in the hole. "Yea, Tiger, your ball hit a
rock, scooted through that sand bunker and rolled into
the cup."
And it became a true "road rage" situation
when one genius decided to comb the lake fronting the
10th green for lost balls. My friend quickly defused
the situation by tactfully suggesting that "unless
you feel like going for a swim, you better move it along,
Sparky." It got to the point where the only alternative
to assault and battery was finding other ways to pass
the time on the tee box. It took about a hole and a
half to figure out the New York Mets starting lineup
for game five of the '69 series.
And I guess we can look at it as some sort of accomplishment
that we came up with the nickname of Huntz Hall's character
on the Bowery Boys. It had been bothering me for weeks.
Satch – for those of you who were wondering. Still
more waiting produced Hall's real name on the show but
did little to help my putting stroke.
By the 15th hole it was either Miller time or go time.
We opted for the former but didn't pass up the opportunity
to cut them off on the cart path en route to the clubhouse.
And, of course, flip them the universal sign of disapproval
on the way by.
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