Just Pretend the Pin is a Tree

"I'm what users of highly-technical golf-related language would call 'the guy who's always losing his balls.'"

Well, I had promised this story nearly a month ago and now I've got some time on my hands, so here it goes:

Oh, but first, this isn't the oft-promised GBPCPT, part two. The staff here at TIRH is still working on that one.

And the story I'm currently starting to tell right about now actually begins today, just a short while ago, when I decided to go out to the "Driving Range". The "Driving Range," I shall point out, is not a large, open region over which I drive my Saturn, but rather the place I go to replace one set of frustrations with another. Okay, so first of all, today was perhaps a tad humid. And, as some of you know all too well, I'm a bit of a sweater (definition one, not two in case you're confused) to begin with. So I spent a nice afternoon hitting golf balls, discovering my love for my three wood, using my shirt as a towel--all while my eyes burned and my neck glistened and, best of all, a blister formed and burst on my thumb all in one swing. If that wasn't eight bucks worth of fun, I don't know what is.

At any rate, this led me to remember the story of the last time I went golfing. It was about a month ago, down in Rhode Island, with my big brother. Mike hadn't golfed in a couple of years, though he had been a decent golfer, not great, but he could hold his own with other easy-going, beer-swilling guys who hang out at the small club in Westfield named after a hardly-known Venetian saint. And me, I golf rarely. I think I could be reasonably good if I did it regularly, but I don't, so I'm what users of highly-technical golf-related language would call "the guy who's always losing his balls."

So, we get this tee time at some ungodly hour of the morning, let's call it 6:40 AM. I don't know about you, but I don't do my best anything at 6:40 AM, especially while on vacation with the kids. So anyway, Mike and I get there and find out that we're going to be paired up with two other guys because I guess that's the way they do it. I didn't like the idea because 1) the guys looked like golfing wasn't a once a year activity and 2) I knew I'd do at least a half a dozen things to make them roll their eyes and give them something to talk about over dinner back at their McMansion. So, anyway, the first guy--I'll call him Stu because his real name escapes me and I think it suits him just fine--tees up and blast one oh maybe 250 yards down the fairway. "Damn, a little to the right," he mutters. The second guy--um, let's say Larry--hits a decent drive, nothing spectacular, but better than I know I'll ever do. Mike's third and he hits a decent drive, a bit to the left and not as long as he would like. I get up there and swing away and groan as the ball dribbles 20 or so yards. I notice the painted smiles on Stu and Larry's faces and Mike mutters "Don't worry about it" and all I can say is "At least it was right down the center of the fairway."

So our game went on--we were only golfing nine holes by the way--and for the most part I did okay. Stu and Larry were polite about my early chipping and putting even though my short game shots often resulted in longer distances from the hole. But eventually things smoothed out and I hit one nice shot out of the bunker that drew sincere praise and I parred a short par 3 hole and I only lost three balls and eventually we got down to the last hole.

If I remember correctly, it was a par 5 that bent a bit to the right, although that really has nothing to do with my story. I hit a decent tee shot and then my second shot went a bit off the mark and landed quite nicely in a clearing--the only problem being a tree between me and the green. So for my third shot I decide to try to hit it along the ground, a bit to the right of the trunk so that I can pitch onto the green and have a longshot at a par. But the gods of golf long ago decreed that if someone doesn't have particular control over his game then he should be punished and my shot hit the trunk of the tree--quite high up it I might add--and came back to within a foot or two of where it started. So I aimed further right, improved my chances of a low shot and hit a not-so-low shot that made a direct, perfect hit on the fat branch of the tree. Dodging the ball as it pitch-backed to me, I decided that the only way to go was well around the tree, even if it meant being far, far away from the green. Hey, you gotta give up at some point and step away from the golf-hubris. So I hit my shot. The ball, apparently thinking that the tree must be my goal, shanked off and hit the very same branch, thudding to a stop at the base of the magnetic tree.

For my next shot, I chose to use my foot and it was a nice chip that set me up about 20 yards from the green. Stu, Larry, and Mike all applauded and Stu said "hey Joe, if you want there's some tennis courts over there." Mike added "you know, you were always good at bowling." And we all laughed in that "we all got up at 6 in the morning for this?" type of way and almost felt a little camaraderie.

So I set up to pitch it onto the elusive green and, Rodney Dangerfield-style, Mike yells out "hey Joe, just pretend the pin is a tree!" causing Stu and Larry to fall down laughing right there near the ninth green. And, me, I just pretended that the pin was a tree and hit a beautiful pitch a few feet from the cup.