Harrison Heyl

Golf: Are all 18 holes really necessary?

Harrison Heyl

Golf takes too much hand-eye coordination. I can barely navigate through a doorway without injuring myself, let alone get that tiny little ball into that tiny little hole. That’s why I used to hate golf.

The problem was, I’d never really played properly. That changed when I recently had the opportunity to accompany a group of athletes who really knew what they were doing. I learned that buying beer and snacks at the clubhouse is the first thing any serious golfer does in preparation for excelling on the golf course.

Part of the mystery of golf is that it involves a confounding array of clubs. There’s the driver, the putter, the cat-o-nine-tails and many others. If you’re like me, you’re as likely to have the same success hitting the ball with a bouquet of flowers. I don’t even know which end of the club to use. The knobby part makes a good handle.

Frequently, guys will name their clubs, like calling their driver Big Momma Honeycutt. I’d want to name a club Steve — I’ve always liked that name — or perhaps Satan, because my clubs exhibited all the signs of being possessed by evil spirits.

Like so many poltergeists moving candlesticks around, my clubs seemed to put the ball in the most unlikely and frightening places. Which brings us to one of the wonderful things about golf: rummaging around in the dense thickets and wooded areas adjacent to the golf course, cursing under your breath and looking for your ball. It really brings you back to nature.

Experienced golfers would occasionally give me pointers.

In the sand traps where I spent most of my time — I get less sand in my shorts at the beach — I was told if I hit the ball just right, the sand would boost the ball out of the sand trap. I typically struck the sand at a point that left the ball motionless but boosted enough sand in my eyes to blind me temporarily until I found an eye-washing station.

Other times I would strike my shin, which, while it does not technically add a stroke to your score, can be quite painful and is not recommended.

Another one of the great aspects of golf is that the courses are designed to leave you at the clubhouse on the ninth hole, where you can readily buy hot dogs and more beer. Which we did.

What other sport can you say that about? Football? “Well, Bob, the 49ers appear to be in a weenie roast formation huddled around the campfire. Uh-oh, Peterson’s frankfurter fell off his stick into the dirt. That’s a rookie mistake from the first-round draft choice that’s going to hurt their field position.”

And can you imagine consuming beer during any other sport? “Shaquille O’Neal is driving the lane. He’s sipping — what is that, Chuck, a nut-brown ale?”

Can you see teams poring over videotape of their opponents? “OK, they tend to drink a stout or porter late in the game, we’ve got to be ready for that.”

While playing the back nine, the appeal of golf sank in further.

One of the best parts of golf is driving the little cart around the gently rolling terrain and smooth greens. You can floor it, slam on the brakes, skid to a halt, bump into the carts of your buddies. You don’t need insurance or a driver’s license; there are no sobriety checkpoints, and few rules of the road to unnecessarily confine your movements.

The game of golf itself is boring. Eighteen holes are way too many. They should shorten it to about four, which is about the point I started looking at my watch and feigning a pulled spleen just to get out of playing.

In fact, if I had my way, we would do away with the ball and clubs altogether, and golf would consist simply of driving those go-carts around, BS-ing with friends, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. Now there’s a sport!

Frequent Beacon contributor Harrison Heyl used a golf cart to give Phil Mickelson a run for his money at last weekend’s Master’s Tournament. The course marshals are still looking for him.