Avian Flu Times Two

It's wretched. Veritably abject.

I have been afflicted since childhood. For fifteen years, I've struggled to overcome. Like alcoholism, and masturbation, it is not merely an addiction; it's a disease. It debilitates ability to reason, causes delusions of grandeur. Like bipolar-affected individuals, those who share my malady suffer extreme highs and lows, reckless (often aggressive) behavior, and abnormally poor judgement. Commingling Turret's Syndrome, Bipolar Disorder, and God only knows what else (or possibly the Devil, but probably no one else, except maybe Jesus, but then again, isn't He God? Would the Holy Spirit know these things?), this disease is the greatest threat to Unites States citizens since the invasion of the British rock group, Coldplay.

Indeed, the Avian Flu has nothing on golf. In fact, scientists have proven golf to be twice as deadly.*

I took up the game of golf for the same reason I originally played hockey and baseball: because my parents made me. Little did I know, what began as a way to structure my time in a meaningful manner would prove to achieve quite the opposite.

I have a great idea, gang: let's spend the next four hours in the pits of hell! Golly, I've been meaning to throw twenty-five bucks down the poopshoot!

Golf is a dreadful, insidious game. More often than not, I hate the damn sport. In a recent round, I completely lost my swing. To lose one's swing, in golf vernacular, means the following: If you were to poll a small group of nearby spectators who happened to for some reason be watching my round of golf, and you asked them if I were 1) a novice golfer, 2) an experienced amateur, or 3) a golf professional, they would respond, collectively, "AAHHHHHHHHHHH! NOOO! THE HUMANITY!!!" as my errant pitching wedge shot, shanked--sprayed straight right off the clubface--struck their skulls in a masterful show of ineptitude.

I vowed to quit. Forever. Despite years of training.

Why?

Ultimately, golf, like life, is utterly pointless. Delving deeper, I decided to quit golf out of a more basic desire: to ensure the survival of those I love (and often, play golf with). I do not wish harm upon my family members, nor even on the stray single who might foolishly wander into a threesome full of Killer Bs (Dad: Bernie; Bro: Brady; Self: Brett). In general, I value life. At the very least, I try my best to avoid committing murders--accidental or otherwise--which is a grave possibility on any given golf shot. Well, probably not on a putt, but is that a chance you are willing to take?

Not me, for golf is Russian roulette with balls.

Alas, the very next day, my boss invited me to play a round of golf. 18 holes, for free, during a workday.

Clearly, I could not turn down a day off work.

Naturally, I expected the worst. When you expect bad things to happen, typically they do. And do they did: I sank a birdie. No, a drive gone askew did not crush a wading duck; rather, I sank a birdie putt. My first birdie of the year. Moreover, I played other holes with uncanny consistency. I miraculously rediscovered my driver swing. Balls arched majestically through the air over 300 yards. Not left. Not right. Not Backwards. Not nowhere. But Straight, 300 yards. Irons met the dimpled surface of my Titleist head-on, imparting perfect spin and trajectory. Putts rolled with near-perfect speed and precision.

I was in the proverbial zone.

The occasional shot still strayed off course, and sure, one or two putts hit an unseen slope and missed the cup by a measly foot or ten, but golf, after all, is a game of mistakes; the goal is to minimize errors as much as possible. Consistency is the key. If I could simply birdie a few more holes per round, I could take aim at the city golf tournament this summer and have a realistic shot at claiming the title! After that, who knows?

To the practice range I went! Oh, this would be fun, getting to fine-tune an improving golf game, one on the verge of blasting past amateur status into the sphere of the elite. Even the worst professionals on the tour make solid dough. According to recent statistics on pgatour.com, the 184th best golfer makes six figures!

Oh, snap!

I plugged a tee into the ground, set a ball atop it, and hit my first drive of the practice session: a beauteous sight to behold! I wondered, gazing around coyly to see if anyone had witnessed my mammoth smash, if I could outdrive Tiger Woods, because that baby really had some hot sauce on it! After tracing the sky with one peerlessly projected golf ball after another, a startling, if breathtaking, panoply of brilliance, I decided to hit the practice putting green to hone the short game.

After ten minutes of hit-or-miss success, I decided the practice green did not suitably mimic the greens of a real golf course. Wasn't this green too sloped? Why else would I be missing three-foot putts? Eh, it's probably because it's impossible to practice putting with the same intensity one feels during the thrill of competition. Besides, putting is easy; no worries!

Once home, I scoured the Internet for sundry golf tips that were sure to dot the final remaining lowercase j's of my emerging excellence. One tidbit, in particular, would surely prove to subtract two or three strokes off my score in a jiffy; how could increasing my driving distance by 30 yards do otherwise? All it entailed was a fairly minor grip change, and the procurement of a new $250 1W ($100 off the retail price! What a deal!)

I emailed my brother, and we agreed to meet at 6:30 AM at Yahara Hills Golf Course. Better to beat the rush. 18 glorious holes, uninterrupted by slow players. Newbs. We'd be done by ten A.M. and have the rest of the day to discuss the round, and what, if anything, we needed to work on yet.

At this point of the story, there are two and only two possible outcomes. One: I have a very good, but infuriatingly imperfect, round of golf, scoring at or near my low score of the year, thus facilitating further delusions of grandeur; two: reality, in the form of slices, shanks, and misread putts, slaps me in the face like a tire iron rapped across my cheek by a crazed victim of road rage (despite the fact that asshole cut me off!). In the former scenario, I would continue golfing until the latter, inexorable outcome occurred. If slapped by the cold tire iron of reality, however, I would vow to forever quit this game I loathe, only to be lured by the siren of the birdie's chirp, or the eagle's squawk, doomed to fall prey once more to expectations smothered with the tasty, addictive dip of naiveté, which might look and taste much like nacho cheese.

The only option for the hacks like myself, and all of you golfing addicts out there (I'm better than 90% of you, so yes, this means you, Mr. Skin-tight Khakis), is to enjoy the game for what it is: hell on earth. Imagine the searing pain of self-immolation. Now pretend Death decides to eschew your appointment to the afterlife in order to delight in your suffering. You are walking down the fairway--your drive, oh by the way, just sailed at least fifty yards over the woods that beset it--where finally you plop down a new ball, take out your pitching wedge, and swing with Herculean force, feeling still the sting of embarrassment from your little "episode" on the tee box in which you hurled your driver one-hundred yards toward a gaggle of geese because "those fucking bastards distracted [you]"; then you gaze down the fairway toward the green only to see a wisp of white flash, transient as a firefly's flicker, in your peripheral vision.

Shank. Out of bounds.

You begin laughing uncontrollably as the frail grip of sanity slackens and the intricate system of failsafes designed by God to prevent descent to madness begins a rapid shutdown sequence, one by one, until only your maniacal cackle, which is all that remains of your humanity, if it can be called that, dies like a sigh into the thick silence of a humid mid-morning air.

It is 9:15 A.M. You are tired, cranky, dispirited. All you want in the entire world is to curl up on your bed and cuddle with the one you love, even if it is just the damn cat, and fall peaceably into the serene respite that is slumber.

You have seven holes to go.

The nightmare continues.

If you are thinking of taking up the game of golf, and you have any choice in the matter, please, heed my warning: like excessive masturbation, golf will chafe the foreskin...of your very soul.

Beware!

*Scientists have not studied the pernicious effects of golf vis-à-vis the Avian Flu. But I'm confident my figures are on the mark. I have pie charts available upon request should further evidence be required.