Golf is still a four-letter word

This is where I spent my Saturday morning. How about you?

Golf would be a much easier sport if I was unrelentingly, hopelessly, lucky-to-even-make-contact-with-the-ball bad.

Because I would never play it.

I played in a golf tournament with my buddy Mix at Nonesuch Golf Course in Maine yesterday. There were plenty of bad shots; heaven knows there were plenty of bad shots. For one thing, I came home with six fewer golf balls than I started with.

I put balls in the woods and the bushes (although I don't think water, which is odd for me), spun balls off to the left, jerked them to the right, dribbled them along the ground and couldn't find a putt long enough to not blow past the hole. (I'm not kidding. I don't know exactly what the problem was, but I overshot a putt that must have been 40 feet by 10 feet.)

Fortunately, we were playing a scramble, so most of my shots didn't count. Otherwise, our score would have been a lot worse than the 2-over 72 we recorded, which as it was came in last among the 15 teams in the tournament. Although my exploding putter caused the most spectacular misses, none of us could make a putt to save our lives, other than the one Mix made to score our only birdie of the day.

And I managed to thoroughly embarrass myself, not by playing lousy, but by breaking my 3-iron over my leg out of frustration over dumping a shot in the woods. I didn't think I was actually going to break the thing, but I apparently don't know my own strength. I felt lousy after I did it, and not just because my 3-iron is my favorite club, but also because I let my temper actually turn destructive.

(This would be a visual approximation if Bo Jackson was white, playing golf and not one of the greatest athletes any of us has ever seen.)

But scattered among the horribleness were some actual decent shots, even with my 1-wood, which I pretty much swore off years ago because I was incapable of hitting a ball with it. Sure, they were short -- because my mechanics are so bad unless I swing fairly slowly, I can't really cut loose -- but they were solid contact and actually got off the ground and went in the general direction of where I wanted them to go.

They were the kind of shots that could make a delusional person think, "If I only played a little more, practiced a little more ... maybe I could actually suck a little less at this game." (Notice I didn't say "get good" ... baby steps, baby steps.)

It's an intoxicating feeling, the kind of feeling you want to chase.

So although all logic says I'll never actually be good at golf -- there are only so many hours in a day to practice as much as I would need to, and I do have to work and live the rest of my life -- and therefore should hide my clubs in the basement where I'll never find them, I'll probably do it again sometime.