Golf's New Rules

I enjoy the game of golf, mainly because it’s just a game. It’s also good exercise, you get lots of fresh air, and the camaraderie is fun unless someone feels the urge to help you with your swing. Then it’s kill time. It’s also eco-friendly. Except for a few divots here and there, the course looks exactly the same after you  play as it did on arrival. There is no harm, no foul for a wayward shot or two, and no one is any the worse for wear when you cuss or throw a club when you shank a ball and it goes out of bounds or into a pond. There is no hanky-panky taking place on the course or in the woods, tall tales to the contrary notwithstanding.(I am forced by secret rules to say that on 80 percent of the courses I play). I rarely keep score, so it doesn’t bother me that many of my playing friends suddenly lose their ability to do simple math when they add up their scores. Who cares if you shoot a 80 or 120? Not me. A drink and a laugh at the “19th Hole” is good enough for what ails me. Just don’t try to relive your best shot on hole #15. I didn’t care about it the first time when I had to watch you get lucky

It bothers me, however, when I hear television commentators tell the world that golf is a character-building set of activities. It isn’t. It doesn’t change your character, it reveals it. It doesn’t take courage to “go for the green” from a distance that is beyond your skills. Your courage is not challenged at all unless you tell your wife or significant other that your allotted time will be spent at a business meeting—and she catches you in that lie. And your heroism quotient is never on display, not even when you taunt a stray alligator with a #9 iron. That is correctly called stupidity.

The only difference between a professional and an amateur is money. Pros get it, we don’t. When a pro says it’s not about the money, he or she is lying. In fact, the more they make, the more they want. But remember my first sentence, it’s just a game. I don’t want to see their sorry asses on television hawking any kind of product or service. Most don’t know the difference between a can of oil and a can of beer. I get a little peeved (not jealous) that a pro can make $100 million a year when he tallies up all his income from on and off the course. It doesn’t take him long to start believing he is worth it—and more. One well-known pro was told that he was worth $600 million per year above and beyond his income just by showing up on the course and on the TV tube. Why? Because his fans love him. Horse feathers! That is called group think. He rarely speaks, or smiles, or does anything except play the game a tiny bit better than the others after 4 days of playing. I don’t care. But half of them own private jets, expensive yachts, and palatial homes in many different locations. That’s not bad for a semi-literate group of college drop-outs, or low-on-the-curve of sociology majors.

To the Rich Go the Riches. Now wouldn’t you know that somebody has hatched another scheme to make a lot more money gush to the already huge pile of dough the poor professional boys and girls are taking home? Somebody is floating this idea among the brethren: Why don’t we start a new league consisting of just the superstars? Let’s offer them somewhere between $30 and $50 million each just to sign up for this new league. We’ll have purses of $20 to $30 million to divvy up for each tournament. Last I heard the youngsters were against it, but Phil Michelson loves it. I’m betting that Tiger Woods would play strapped to a hospital bed for more money to add to his $ 1 billion-dollar bankroll. Phil is that 50-year old who makes only $50 million a year, and is worth a mere $400 million. Poor kid.

Last item: Will you ex-players turned announcers please stop telling us about a “beautiful” swing, or anyone’s “gorgeous “ posture unless they belong to a beautiful or gorgeous lady. And it doesn’t take “steely nerves” to make a putt from a distance of 50 feet. We’ve all been there, done that. In fact, anything I can do can’t be all that difficult. It’s those rare shots that soar to the heavens, careen off trees, jump over bunkers, and land on the green that bring me back to the course. Now that's golf.  That, and the college-age girls in tiny shorts who drive the refreshment carts.