Colorado Me and The Last (Golf) Crusade

Let me say straight away, that I was never part of a foursome that looked like this.

On the other hand, being a member of a foursome who played like this looked, well...yes, I have been.  And more times than I care to admit.

Of late, I have been posting some of my more conspicuously bad moments in golf history on my Facebroke page.  There are some bad ones, indeed.

I haven't picked up a golf club since 2005.  Other than to take one away from my pet rock, Seymour, who was trying to use it to fend off a marauding leftover from my 'fridge. 

The last time that I did so -- picked up a club for purposes originally intended for one -- was memorable for many reasons.  It was the first and perhaps last time that I had and will probably ever play Homestead Golf Course, in Jefferson County, Colorado.

It was July, 2005.  The front nine that day was memorable, in that I tied my own personal best nine hole score:  41.  I did this not with creative score keeping or the use of Judge Smails' ball adjusting.  I did it with decent, trouble-free drives; amazing (for me) approach shots; and a putter that, from 6-8 feet away, didn't miss.

My golf partners for the round were impressed.  I was astonished.  I hadn't played a round since '03, in a company best-ball scramble format (noted some time ago in this blog).  And on that occasion, my game was better suited to a best-ball scramble format.  Most of my shots couldn't be held against me on a scorecard of law.

But this day was almost the crossing of a golf Rubicon, and the having of a great epiphany after my second beer.  I had come upon the i ching and the great Realization:  I suck at golf.  I always have.  And I've always known it.

But to accept it...this was something new.

And at that moment, in 2005, on a pace for my best 18 hole score ever, I had come to terms with just how much I sucked.  Acceptance appeared to be that great epiphany.  It didn't matter how much I sucked.  History had not been affected one whiff by how I sucked.  Current events were as they were intended to be, whether I sent a toupee-shaped divot skyward or not.

The future would be; the sun would set, the sun would rise, whales and swallows would migrate, the rains would fall, the crops would grow, and a cow would never fart in an office elevator, whether I sucked or not.  The great questions of Life, Death, and how a fruitcake can outlive a Galapagos Island tortoise, would always remain as they had from the dawn of time, regardless of how much I sucked at golf.

At that superlative moment -- which would have been a "WTF?" one for anyone else -- life was good.  Acceptance was the epiphany.  The i ching.  The great secret to a relaxed, enjoyable game, free of  post-stroke inquiries like "oh, what the f**k was that?" and "what the f**k am I doing over there?".

Then I made two simple epiphany-negating mistakes.  One, I thought about it.  Two, I began the back nine.

And just as suddenly as my game had seen a favorable glimpse and kindly nod from the Great Disposer of Golf Events...it caught a remindive glimpse of the Great Reality Returns...and I remembered that whatever the first nine holes had meant in the universe, I still sucked at the sport I was re-engaging.

And proved it on the 10th tee box.  And the 12th.  And on one hole that had a creek coursing across the fairway.  A creek you would just about jump across without effort.  A creek my golf ball sought succor and asylum in.  Twice.

As for my almost unconscious putting accuracy on the front nine...my putter had awakened, and returned to form.  A two putt was now a gift.  My putter seems to prefer helping my pet rock fend off marauding leftovers from my 'fridge, to helping me achieve a back nine best. 

It should have been careful about what it wished for.

As I finally drained my last 4 putt on the 18th hole, I discovered that, despite my epiphany, I couldn't out-relax my sucking at golf.

I know that you're curious.  And no, I did not -- despite my suckage on the back nine -- make triple digits for the round.  I averted that.  Barely.  But my clubs have not ventured out since that day.  Other than to help a poor pet rock fend off marauding leftovers from my 'fridge. 

I should, of course, just shoot the leftovers in their maraudage.  But my clubs gotta have something to do.  And my putter earned this.