Golf symbolizes for a lot of pot-bellied, balding middle aged men success. Why? They can traipse around the clubhouse and act the big guy in their expensive golf clothes and say to themselves, I’m a success? You have to work. But I can hang around the golf club.
Golf is the most un-sport of all sports, the reason why pot-bellied bald men with heart murmurs can play it.
You don’t have to do anything, except walk short distances, and swing at a little white ball. Supposedly, if you’re doing it right, the ball gets closer to the hole with each swing. After you swing, you get back into a toy car powered by a battery and drive to where you hit the ball. Then you get out and do it again. Get back in the toy car, and drive again.
This is a sport?
It involves neither courage nor stamina.
Sometimes, people who are recognized as being the best at swinging at the little ball, are followed around the course by hordes of strangers who lives are so meaningless, they have nothing better to do than follow someone who is hitting a tiny ball closer to a hole in the ground and driving a toy car.
Sometimes television broadcasts it so you can see them hit the ball at a hole. Millions of dollars are awarded to the one who gets the ball in the hole in less tries than the other guy.
He says, oh look at me, I’m getting the ball closer to the hole. Aren’t I great? Oh I’m important. I sent the ball right at the hole that time.
Everybody whispers in the crowd, as though something really important is going on. At boxing matches and baseball games they scream. But not golf. A sport that has no noise except the whirring of the toy cars?
Most who play golf are neither famous for it, or particularly good at it, or successful, though they want to pretend they are. After spending very little energy swinging perhaps an average 93 times at a tiny ball and then driving a toy car, they come back to the clubhouse and have a calorie-laden steak and a double scotch on the rocks.
Not only do they fanaticize they’re rich in their overpriced golf clothes, made by a slave laborer in China, but they also think of themselves as sportsmen. Golf, with the possible remote exception of bowling, is the only sport you can play if you’re an out-of-shape slob.
You see, if you were to climb into a boxing ring and box, everybody would see you’re out of shape and laugh at you when you clumsily collapsed into a corner from exhaustion after only the first round. That wouldn’t stroke your ego would it?
No. Mainly, golf is to take erratic swings at a tiny white ball, drive a toy car after it, then come back and parade around and act the big guy. Despite the fact that your house, your car, and your boat, are not owned by you, but by a bank from which you borrowed money to acquire those things, and to which you now make payments that you probably can’t meet.
Like borrowing, golf is somehow psychologically a way a person can deceive themselves. Look at me. I’m important. I’ve made it. What “it” is we don’t know, but that’s beside the point for our purposes.
Millions of gallons of water are expended each year on watering golf courses that produce neither crops nor oxygen-giving trees.
But you can tell yourself, oh look at me, that was a good shot, I’m closer now to the hole than I was before. Oh boy! Let’s get in the toy car and drive over there. See? My ball almost rolled onto that really thin grass (the green), where that Hispanic minimum wage illegal immigrant worker mowed it real real close.
Why do you yell “four?” When you hit the ball at someone’s head? Why not yell “Five,” or “twenty five?” Why not yell, “Hey look out, there’s a ball speeding toward your head?” Golf would be more interesting and more of a sport if the person whose head you almost took off with your errant shot and then yelled “Four” at, as part of the game, the rules, was then allowed to come over and engage you in bare knuckle fisticuffs.
Beat the crap out of you. The fight winner gets 20 strokes taken off their score.
You wouldn’t come back to the clubhouse to show off with a bloody nose. The overpriced steak at the clubhouse you’d have to put over your eye instead of ingesting it and swelling your already dangerously bulging waistline.
Then fewer people might play the ridiculous game of golf.