Ah, to be writing again. The feeling of the keyboard under my fingers…reminds me of…well, writing. But I digress. After quite the long hiatus, I believe that perhaps it is again time for me to try my hand at blogging. I, as always, promise nothing, but hope for the best.
I would like to tell a story—a story of perseverance and commitment. I was recently watching the US Open, in which many of the top golfers from around the world were competing, and the routine scores were in the upper 70s to 80s. That was some crazy golf. But the point, my friends, is that those rounds were quite poor…and this set me on my current train of thought, sending me back to a magical place and time, known as Fairhope and middle school….and yes, I know those are two places, but I’m going to pretend middle school is an age. At the time, I had recently become interested in golf. A few of my friends played, and they looked like they were having fun, so I figured, “What the hey,” and jumped in. Now, my father, an avid golfer himself, did what any good father would do and signed me up to play a very competitive series of tournaments at some of the nicest courses in the area….and by nice, I mean really freakin’ hard. But anyways. At the time, I was but a mere 4’10” at best, and using my father’s hand-me-down clubs. He’s 5’10”, and needless to say, golf clubs are not one size fits all. I had never played a round of golf before, let alone a real tournament in which you had to “follow the rules.” But still, I’d give it that ole middle school try and do my best. I mean, at least I was signed up for the 13-14 year old B flight. I may be bad, but compared to the other kids, I won’t be too awful. So off I go on my first golf adventure.
I arrive in Fairhope at Rock Creek Golf Course. This is probably one of the premier golf courses in the area, complete with its own subdivision and plenty of SUVs. It includes massive undulating hills on both sides of the narrow fairways and more forced carries over swamp than holes. Needless to say, me and the drop area became close friends. It becomes time to start my round and I’m paired with two other kids who are both a good bit bigger than me, but that comes as no shock to a guy my size, so I thought nothing of it. Game on. Well, for my first round of golf, my Dad probably could have picked a better environment. I don’t think I ever touched the fairway except to cross it from side to side looking for my ball. At least once or twice I drove the ball past the ladies tee box. And it’s a good thing I had played baseball for so many years because I was frequently taking cuts at my ball, stopped securely on a hill, chest-high. As if the humiliation of the experience was not enough, we were required to carry our clubs for 18 holes in mid-June. Granted, with as many golf balls as I donated to the course, my bag became considerably lighter as I went on….but still. As an aid to the tournament, they had asked us to mark down in a little book not only our scores on each hole, but also what club we used off the tee, if we hit the fairway, what club we hit to approach the green, and if we hit it in regulation. That was fine for the most part, but I hit so many approaches into the green I didn’t know what club I should put down. Meanwhile, my compatriots were shooting in the 80s. That was a real confidence booster.
Finally….finally…we finished and got off that forsaken land. I turn in my scorecard and then, yes, then and only then, do my little friends tell me that an 8 is the highest the tournament lets you take on any one hole. So of course, I thanked them for that. And then, my score is posted, under the 15-18 A Flight. “Whoops…I guess that was our bad,” they tell me. “We accidentally signed up you, the worst player out here on his first day of golfing, with kids much older and infinitely better….Haha…well I guess we’ll all have a good laugh at that one.” Yeah…I’m still laughing.
Ultimately, what it comes down to, is I believe I have recorded the worst round of golf ever played, from its birth in Scotland, to this last weekend at the US Open. Now, if you remember correctly, an 8 is the highest you can record, so you max out at 8 X 18, or 144. That, my friends is a lot of strokes. But remember…I did not know that 8 was the highest score you could record…so I kept on going…and going….all the way to 210. “Wow!” you say. “How is that possible?”…which indicates to me that you apparently have not been reading any of my story, but I guess I’ll let that slide.
Now, if you are reading my story, then you remember that this is a story of perseverance and commitment. I shot a 210…over 18 holes…but I finished. That’s the key. I never gave up, despite everything that went wrong that day. This is a fairly long story for such a short moral, but it’s very important. If you ever feel like giving up because something got too hard, just think of this story, remember 210, and picture the13-year-old kid traveling the course with a golf bag taller than him. That should do the trick.
I would like to tell a story—a story of perseverance and commitment. I was recently watching the US Open, in which many of the top golfers from around the world were competing, and the routine scores were in the upper 70s to 80s. That was some crazy golf. But the point, my friends, is that those rounds were quite poor…and this set me on my current train of thought, sending me back to a magical place and time, known as Fairhope and middle school….and yes, I know those are two places, but I’m going to pretend middle school is an age. At the time, I had recently become interested in golf. A few of my friends played, and they looked like they were having fun, so I figured, “What the hey,” and jumped in. Now, my father, an avid golfer himself, did what any good father would do and signed me up to play a very competitive series of tournaments at some of the nicest courses in the area….and by nice, I mean really freakin’ hard. But anyways. At the time, I was but a mere 4’10” at best, and using my father’s hand-me-down clubs. He’s 5’10”, and needless to say, golf clubs are not one size fits all. I had never played a round of golf before, let alone a real tournament in which you had to “follow the rules.” But still, I’d give it that ole middle school try and do my best. I mean, at least I was signed up for the 13-14 year old B flight. I may be bad, but compared to the other kids, I won’t be too awful. So off I go on my first golf adventure.
I arrive in Fairhope at Rock Creek Golf Course. This is probably one of the premier golf courses in the area, complete with its own subdivision and plenty of SUVs. It includes massive undulating hills on both sides of the narrow fairways and more forced carries over swamp than holes. Needless to say, me and the drop area became close friends. It becomes time to start my round and I’m paired with two other kids who are both a good bit bigger than me, but that comes as no shock to a guy my size, so I thought nothing of it. Game on. Well, for my first round of golf, my Dad probably could have picked a better environment. I don’t think I ever touched the fairway except to cross it from side to side looking for my ball. At least once or twice I drove the ball past the ladies tee box. And it’s a good thing I had played baseball for so many years because I was frequently taking cuts at my ball, stopped securely on a hill, chest-high. As if the humiliation of the experience was not enough, we were required to carry our clubs for 18 holes in mid-June. Granted, with as many golf balls as I donated to the course, my bag became considerably lighter as I went on….but still. As an aid to the tournament, they had asked us to mark down in a little book not only our scores on each hole, but also what club we used off the tee, if we hit the fairway, what club we hit to approach the green, and if we hit it in regulation. That was fine for the most part, but I hit so many approaches into the green I didn’t know what club I should put down. Meanwhile, my compatriots were shooting in the 80s. That was a real confidence booster.
Finally….finally…we finished and got off that forsaken land. I turn in my scorecard and then, yes, then and only then, do my little friends tell me that an 8 is the highest the tournament lets you take on any one hole. So of course, I thanked them for that. And then, my score is posted, under the 15-18 A Flight. “Whoops…I guess that was our bad,” they tell me. “We accidentally signed up you, the worst player out here on his first day of golfing, with kids much older and infinitely better….Haha…well I guess we’ll all have a good laugh at that one.” Yeah…I’m still laughing.
Ultimately, what it comes down to, is I believe I have recorded the worst round of golf ever played, from its birth in Scotland, to this last weekend at the US Open. Now, if you remember correctly, an 8 is the highest you can record, so you max out at 8 X 18, or 144. That, my friends is a lot of strokes. But remember…I did not know that 8 was the highest score you could record…so I kept on going…and going….all the way to 210. “Wow!” you say. “How is that possible?”…which indicates to me that you apparently have not been reading any of my story, but I guess I’ll let that slide.
Now, if you are reading my story, then you remember that this is a story of perseverance and commitment. I shot a 210…over 18 holes…but I finished. That’s the key. I never gave up, despite everything that went wrong that day. This is a fairly long story for such a short moral, but it’s very important. If you ever feel like giving up because something got too hard, just think of this story, remember 210, and picture the13-year-old kid traveling the course with a golf bag taller than him. That should do the trick.
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