a life in sports, part two

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So much for chronology. I’ve forgotten a few.

2.5) Golf—the kilted feller who dreamed up this clownish pastime was a masochist of the highest order, a sick jokester. I wouldn’t wish golf on my worst enemy. Most of the golfing populace—myself included—doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing out there. Tiger Woods we ain’t. Charles Barkley we is:



I’ve never been much of a golfer. My all-time best for 9 holes stands at a laughable 46, a score Mr. Woods posted at the age of 4. That being said, I know a great deal about the game, the result of twelve years of humble service as a caddie. Allow me to relate a story, fill a little white space. Why not?

When i was 14, 15—somewhere in there—I toiled one impossibly hot summer day for a grease-haired man named Furlong. He was rich and he liked his drink and my sole duty was to maneuver his golf cart and replenish the beer when it got low. He made this very clear from the start: “Mike, I don’t want yardage or conversation, and I really don’t require any help on the greens—you’re gonna be Watcher of the Beer. Drive the cart or whatever, make sure we have ice.” Furlong gulleted inhuman amounts of Budweiser that afternoon and got hisself good and wobbly. We’re talkin’ bubbles out the mouth whenever he burped and three of everything where there once was one.

When we approached the tee box for 16, a short par-four, greasy Furlong summoned me from the cart. “Mikey,” he said, “hit a drive.” He handed me tee, club, shiny-brite Titleist. I smoked the cover off that damn ball, Bunyaned the thing into the clouds. Still unsure how it happened, really, but somehow physics and Elwood collided in impressive ways for less than one second and that ball soared straight and true, high and far, cleared an oft-unclearable bunker with yards to spare. All told, the thing probably rolled 295 or so, a robust, executive poke from a midget with a concave chest. Furlong’s bloodshot eyes nearly popped from his sockets. It was (is, probably) the greatest drive I’d ever struck, the single purest swing of my life. Furlong urged me to play out the rest of the hole, convinced I was a freakish prodigy or something.

You already know the story that follows; it’s been Charlie Brown’s since 1950. I tripped over my own ankles, missed the football entirely and posted a double-bogey six, debunking Furlong’s Mike-is-golf’s-next-white-hope theory in a damn hurry.

2.7) Roller Hockey—yup, I played this one, too. Wasn’t very good at stopping. I spent a lot of time plowing into people.

4) Running—what to say? Running was my life. Still is, in small ways. I visit letsrun.com (a community forum/news site for runners) daily, though I haven’t trained in earnest since college.

I’m sick of writing, so the entry ends here.
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