The Club Championship Update

"I'm just a caveman."

Every golfer has an Achilles heel.  Mine is fairly common – the driver.  Some days I pick it up and I feel like a caveman who has just been handed an electric guitar.  I kind of stare it wondering how it works and then I go to the range and play with it until I can get some kind of music to come out of it.  If I can get it to make at least a flat twang, I shrug my shoulders and take that swing to the first tee.  Some days it’s so bad I start laughing on my downswing as I realize, “I have no idea where this is going.”  It is one of the reasons I joined a club with no houses on it.      

With that being the case, I was justifiably trepidatious as I prepared for my rain shortened one round qualifying tournament last Sunday.  The 7,000+ yard course had been underwater for a week so the fairways were like oatmeal and the rough looked like a genetically engineered spinach farm.  It was kind of like playing on the set of Swamp Thing.  Ideal conditions for a guy who is generally satisfied with hitting about five out of fourteen fairways.  So what did I do?  I hit four of the first five.  Where did I stand after six holes (#4 is a par three)?  Six over par!  How did I accomplish this?  Thirteen putts which, for those doing the math, is 6 holes x 2 putts per hole +1 and it didn’t get any better from there as I finished with thirty-eight putts (18 x 2 + 2).  Suffice it to say I missed the cut.    

I have been walking around for four days muttering “38 putts, 38 putts….38 putts.”  When people say, “excuse me?” I respond with “never mind” but what I want to say is “38 GODDAMN MUTHERF---ING PUTTS!!!!!”  How does that happen?  I mean you’re taking a flat object and using it to roll a ball across the ground into a hole.  Sometimes the ball should just hit the hole by accident right?  RIGHT?!?!  Isn’t that some kind of combination of the laws of probability and physics?  Eventually a rolling ball will discover gravity and fall straight down?  Screw you Sir Isaac Newton.     

"I'm mind f-cking you right now."

I am actually a good putter.  At least I thought I was but now I don’t know.  In fact, I’m not sure about anything at this point.  Do I still have the basic skills to drive a car, operate a toaster or even tie my shoes?  The game is such a cruel mind f-ck.  I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns and I currently wish that I’d never picked-up a club.  That’s all I can muster this week but I'm getting back on the horse tomorrow and, whether my putting is great or lousy, I’m going to be bitter either way.  I think I need a psychiatrist.