Golfers Be Crazy

Going after golfers again.  It's because I just don't quite understand the point of golfing.   Take that tiny, pocked white ball and drop it on a stick crammed into the grass where it sits immobile (unless there is a strong wind).  Next, spend a half-hour practice swinging, digging cleats into the grass pretending to be a baseball player - which every golfer secretly wants to be, otherwise they wouldn't wear shoes with spikes when all they are doing is standing in one place.  I mean, how hard can it be to stand in one place for crying out loud?  But I digress.  

Finally, after the wait, the anticipation and the windup, the swing is taken, contact is made and (if the golfer is any good), the ball goes flying!  Mission accomplished. 

But then uncertainty and confusion enters the golfer's mind.  Maybe I shouldn't have done that.  What if I need that ball again? Everyone else on the course has one.  I'll be the only one without a ball.  They'll all laugh at me in the clubhouse.  So, said golfer hops into a cart and at a speed that can only be described as "I'm 90 years old and even I can walk faster than that," the golfer takes off in search of the ball.  Should I mention that the carts are electric because a golf course is the only place in the world that a 100% electric vehicle will EVER be accepted by mainstream society?  No?  Okay, I won't mention it.  But it's true.

The panic-stricken and insecure golfer finds the innocent ball lying in the emerald grass.  Joy fills the golfer's heart.  Yay, I found the ball! I'm one of them again!  But you know what? I don't need to be like everyone else.  I don't need this ball to be cool. How dare they pressure me into being like them! I'm just as cool without it.  Said golfer channels that anger into the iron club he carries with him at all times (which only shows their latent hostilities, because I don't personally know anyone else who walks around with an iron club, do you?).   WHACK!  And the little white ball goes flying again.  

But I did like joking around in the clubhouse over a drink of Arnold Palmer iced tea/lemonade.  That sure was a swell time.   Maybe I do want to be part of the club.  Hmm, I'd better go get the ball.  And so the pointless process continues.  Hit the ball, chase after it, hit it again, chase after it, hit it again, chase after it. 

I guess the game of golf puts into action the phrase, "You don't know what you've got until it's gone."

 I don't know.  Maybe it's just me.