A Day On the Golf Course

Lots of people play golf. It's a sport that anyone can enjoy, so incredibly difficult that you can't help but be hooked after only a few rounds. I find professional golf fun to watch because the pros manage to make everything look so easy. Armed with what I believed to be a pretentious patience to being a spectator to the game of golf, I went along to watch my friend Kevin attempt to qualify for the Florida State Am.

Another aspect to golf often overlooked is the sometimes ungodly hours that we are willing to play; it is my understanding that the only thing happening in the world before 9 o’clock is golf. So I woke up at 7 to make it to his 8:30 tee time, upon arriving there I noticed everyone was riding around in golf carts. This might seem like a ridiculous observation to make, but most tournaments players, caddies, and spectators are relegated to walking the entire course. So when I saw that I would have my own golf cart I pictured myself sitting idly, sipping a drink while watching my friend play golf: all from the comfort of my moving umbrella.

However, when Kevin went to check in, he was handed a piece of paper describing the rules which stated that while players were entitled to carts, all spectators had to walk. My cushy round of golf vanished, but I wasn’t walking without a fight.

Rules Official: Yes, it says right there that only players are allowed to ride carts.

Me: Well I’m press…kinda.

He was unimpressed. My cart cause was further impeded by my lack of a press badge. Apparently walking around with a pen and notebook isn’t enough to earn me a cart. I realized that this rules official was not going to grant me a cart, but I also realized that he was not the supreme authority on who does and doesn’t get a cart. That position falls to the cart guy. So I entered negotiations with a cart guy that unfortunately was on exactly the same brain wave as the rules official. Either that or he had already been warned some one was walking around with a notebook claiming to be a writer, trying to steal a cart.

Cart Guy: Well do you have some sort of disability?

Me: No…wait! If I say yes do I get a cart?

Cart Guy: Not anymore.

I even went as far as to take down the cart guys name in my notebook and ask him a few questions. It’s surprising how far you can get just by asking people questions under the guise that their views will go into a newspaper. This tact might have worked, had all my questions not revolved around why the hell I wasn’t being given a cart. After re-wording my one question nine or ten times the cart guy left exasperated and probably with a new found paranoia regarding journalists…and I was left alone with the carts. Surveying my surroundings I found I was back to my cushy round of golf. After all I wasn’t just stealing a cart, I was “commandeering” a cart with the greater purpose of writing an article in mind. This was perfect justification as far as I was concerned.

Unfortunately the cart guy had not gone too far and by the time that I had chosen the perfect golf cart he was back, and considerably angrier than when he had left. By this time I was in a cart, my cart, and very close to freedom. The only thing that stood in my way was a Caucasian 30 something cart guy. I knew I could get past him and out onto the course, but I had a feeling the resulting low speed chase would result in my being thrown off of the premises. The cart guy probably noticed my moment of brief indecision because he rushed up to the cart and pulled the key out. Thus ended my run at the golf cart. By this time Kevin was on the tee box, so I exchanged a few last angry words with the cart guy and then I began to steel myself for an 18-hole walk on a hot Florida summer morning.

The front nine actually didn’t turn out too bad, it was still relatively early and there was a decent breeze that managed to help me out considerably. The only problem I encountered during the first half of the round was the saturation of the longer grass that I was constantly standing in. By the fourth hole my shoes were soaked through, and by the fifth hole I was debating climbing a tree just to find a place to sit down where I wouldn’t get wet. My current problems aside, Kevin played well, coming in with back-to-back birdies to shoot a two over 38.

Also on the front nine I developed quite the camaraderie with some of the nicer rules officials who weren’t involved in physically keeping me from a cart. These officials are a group of retired gentlemen who drive around the state of Florida and officiate golf, and all from the comfort of their golf cart. What I found interesting about one of these officials, Gollie, is that he possessed an ability to succinctly sum up exactly how I felt about my pedestrian status, “Shit sucks.” Good old Gollie.

By the back nine the course was not wet anymore, the sun had been up long enough that the only moisture was to be found in the air. At this point my mindset had switched from different ways I could attach myself to a cart without the driver knowing it to finding shade. I was constantly dealing with the oppressive heat/fire ant combo that is actually just as uncomfortable as it sounds. Then to make matters worse for myself, I lost my pen around 14. In deciding between taking notes in bark or blood, I choose to just concentrate on finding shade, and low and behold it actually worked. By the end of the round I was thoroughly adept at not just finding shade, but finding shade that overlooked several holes. Utilitarianism at its best.

Finally in my comfort zone, I was back to rooting for Kevin. By this time he was still two over, however, 17 was a difficult par 3 into the wind and the resulting double bogey was a considerable setback this late in the round. He pulled it back together on 18 and made an extremely difficult 20-foot putt to close out his 76. Unfortunately this was one stroke too many and he barely missed the cut. Still, a 76 isn’t too bad, especially when he had an annoying writer asking questions while he was trying to read putts all day.

Even after finishing my cart-less round I was still somewhat in question over why the hell I didn’t get a cart, so I went to look for the cart guy. Regrettably he was nowhere to be found, smart move on his part as far as I’m concerned. Somewhat let down over the absence of the confrontation I had been planning for the better part of Kevin’s round, Gollie was there to lift my spirits, “Damn you sweat a lot today.” Good old Gollie.

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