My dad never golfed, and I can only imagine that his father before him never golfed either. I was the next in line of generations of non-golfers, and I always assumed it was my duty to uphold the family legacy. But I also assumed I would get a job in engineering and spend my days with spreadsheets, American Institute of Steel Construction manuals, and TI-89 calculators—that was always the plan during my five years of engineering school. At least until a Regional Vice President named Guenther Dziuvenis convinced me to go into sales instead and work for him.
In my job interview, Guenther asked if I golfed. I told him no. He told me that wouldn’t be a problem—he didn’t golf either—but if I ever wanted to learn, well, it would probably be a good idea. He even said he would have the company pay for golf lessons. During my first week on the job, the US Senior Open was being played at the Omaha Country Club for the first time ever, and my new office excitedly purchased a set of four tickets to the event. As a new member of the sales team, I was granted the opportunity to help fill these tickets, if only I had any idea what one was supposed to do at a golf event that wasn’t even for the normal professional golfers. My co-worker Al had to explain it to me.
“So this is the US Open?”
“No, the Senior Open.”
“What’s the difference?”
“This is for the Senior PGA.”
“The what?”
“The Senior PGA, it’s the older golfers who aren’t in the regular PGA. Well a few of them play in both.”
“You mean like Phil Mickelson?”
“No, no. Like Bernhard Langer.”
“Who?”
“Freddy Couples?”
“Who?”
“God Dammitt. Tom Watson? You ever heard of Tom Fucking Watson?”
“Ummmm…No?”
Al had some serious work to do with me.
●●●
I made the mistake of telling my mom I was trying to get into golf, who—having never learned any of my true interests—latched onto this new pursuit with vigor when it came time to buy me any and all Christmas presents. When I turned 24, my mom instructed Eileen’s Colossal Cookies to make me a golf-themed birthday cookie and when they returned from South Carolina, I was given screen-printed golf balls with the logo of each of the tourist traps my parents had visited. My mom naturally assumed I would be collecting these now. My Christmas present was a cheap range finder, which my mom admitted she didn’t know what it did, but it was the only golf accessory she found that fit her budget. Next, I unwrapped a navy blue golf polo, so I could proudly show off my cup-size like all the other man-boobed golfers who just assumed no one could see their nipples when they wore their polyester-blend polos to the office each and every. Single. Day.
But after buying a hand-me-down pair of clubs from Al at the office, I did have some intention of learning the game. If for anything else so that I could leave the office early—and for days on end—to participate in all the sponsored golf outings. It reminded me of how all the nicotine-addicted coworkers at Pizza Hut got additional smoke breaks while the rest of us were expected to actually work our entire shifts.
As it turns out it probably would have been easier if I just took up smoking.
Al did both things.
He really had life figured out.
He also wore a lot of golf polos to work. And yes, I could always see his nipples.
●●●
I asked an old classmate to teach me how to swing a club. He had been golfing his entire life and even did it competitively in high school, and he didn’t mind all the range balls I was able to expense on my company credit card. At the end of my first lesson, I had not been infected with anything resembling a love for golf.
Tyler never complained about my lack of progress or all the free lessons I was requesting, but I could sense his enthusiasm waning when he started inviting other friends to join us at the driving range. Without his undivided attention, I asked a guy from church who had an obligation to God to say yes every time someone asked for his help, and the two of us rendezvoused at the same driving range where Tyler had done his best efforts with me.
Michael and I only had one lesson, but I did make sure to show him the new golf pullover my work gave me. He was really impressed. It was high quality and only showed my nipples if you got close.
●●●
I was starting to make contact with the ball—most of the time—well, some of the time—and Tyler gave me a crash course on chipping and putting. But I had yet to play an actual round of golf. Our office participated in a weekly golf league for the American Society of Heating, Refrigeration and Air-conditioning Engineers, and after our installation manager was given a year-long ban due to the time he missed a shot and swung his club above his head and down into the putting green lumberjack-style—we were having trouble filling the required four players each week. I decided my time had come.
Al was against the idea.
Which hurt my feelings.
Which Al didn’t care about.
Despite being a beer league for engineers, people took the ASHRAE golf league pretty seriously. When I ran into an old engineering professor at the driving range, I made a comment about how I had never seen him there. He told me he selected which range he practiced at based on the velocity of the wind flow on that given day. He said, “you know it’s that whole engineering thing, you can never really turn it off.”
Engineers are kind of like that.
Every golfer at the ASHRAE league had a handicap based off their league performance to date. Since I had never golfed in that league, or any league, or in any form—my score wouldn’t be counted that first round and would instead be used to establish my handicap.
After missing the ball entirely on my first tee-shot, I regrouped and made contact on my second swing, hooking it and watching it bounce off the cart path and into a tree line. I hit it again and this time the ball ended up in a tree. Not near a tree. In a tree. About three-feet up, gently nestled in the branches of a pine as if it were the egg in a bird’s nest. I tried swinging my club like a baseball bat at the waist high target, which just made the ball land at my feet after the club head caught the pine needles and shook the entire tree.
The rest of the round went much the same.
In order to keep play moving, there was a maximum score allowed on each hole. Something like seven strokes above par. I was mercy-ruled every single hole and at the end of the round was assigned the maximum allowable handicap. That was the only time I participated in the ASHRAE golf league. I never asked to play again, but I also knew Al would never allow it.
●●●
But I had yet to give up hope. After our Vice President Guenther couldn’t attend the Master’s Golf Tournament due to the untimely death of his mother, he let me take his ticket to escort a couple of customers. I had never watched a golf tournament in my life, on tv or in person, and here I was at Augusta National sitting in the same grandstand as former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and yucking it up with a VP of an engineering firm.
“Hey Chris, check it out. There’s Tom Watson.”
“Ohh yeah, how cool is that. I totally know who Tom Watson is.”
I kept getting invited to fancy-ass golf tournaments. I not only went to the Master’s a second time, I also took customers to the PGA Championship and the US Open. The real one. Not the one for old people. I could talk about golf, even if I couldn’t play golf. And for Christmas that year, my mom bought me a series of golf lessons. By the end of these private sessions I knew what a proper swing felt like, and when I aimed my ball at the driving range, well, it went in that general direction.
I was so thrilled that I accepted an invitation from a customer to go golfing. I told him about my lessons and as we drove back to the clubhouse after the round, he tried to encourage me in my new hobby.
“Chris, that’s great that you’re going to start taking lessons soon. I think you’ll really get a lot out of those. That will help your game a lot.”
Fuck it. Golf is stupid. I don’t like looking at man-boobs enough to be a golfer anyways.
