WILKES-BARRE — When we were kids, we used to hear — and repeat — the following:
“Spring is here
The grass is riz
I wonder where
The birdies iz.”
Well, if the birdies being talked about are those achieved in the game of golf, I will forever wonder where they iz.
Anyway, area golf courses will soon be assaulted by golfers of all abilities — from the very good to hackers like me. My golf motivation was to always approach it like a five-hour vacation. Others treat it like they are playing in The Masters at Augusta National Golf Club.
My cousin Al, out in California — he grew up in Forty Fort — has been a witness to several of my golfing exploits. Here is what he had to say in recalling those glorious golf outings:
“I witnessed several of your miraculous shots off sheer granite cliffs and over fences into a concrete culvert leading to the Pacific that somehow landed on a green or fairway.
“Come to think of it, the Titleist off the tee and any other brand in the middle of the fairway is definitely part of your game.
“The one thing I’ll never understand is how a ball that entered the middle of a pond could somehow end up plugged on the slope of the green on the other side.
“Considering we just observed St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll chalk it up to ‘luck of the Irish!’ These are just a few of my memories of rounds with you.”
The game of golf in my world, well, it can result in real headaches.
For me, golf really was a five-hour vacation. For others, it’s a four-letter word that brings out other four-letter words, especially after a 50-yard miss-hit — to the right or left and into the woods or a pond.
Some golfers know how to use a structure to their advantage. They can hit a drive off the tee into the side of a rock ledge and somehow leave the ball in the fairway or on the green. I have done this.
These guys say they played it that way. They’re the guys who covet golf as a five-hour vacation. They enjoy their time on the course. They don’t care how many shots they hit — a 110 score is far better than mowing the lawn or painting the spare room.
I’m one of those golfers who has evolved over the years from a determined athlete hell-bent on mastering the game, to being grateful to be able to enjoy the day, no matter how ridiculous the score reveals.
One time, I was in a foursome of friends teeing off on a par 3 at a posh golf club. Of the four of us, I was the only one to hit my tee shot on the green. How? I don’t know. I do know that it was on the 4th hole.
As we scattered, I walked to the green to await the arrival of my three, obviously inferior, golfing buddies.
Here’s what I remember from what happened on that glorious sunny day:
I was standing behind the green, holding my putter, basking in the glory of being the only hacker who made it to the green off the tee. I actually smiled a bit as I watched my pals search the high grass for their errant shots. How silly they looked, I thought.
Anyway, one of them had hit his second or third shot into the sand trap in front of the green. By now, the other two had joined me on the green, and we watched as the other guy was about to hit his ball out of the trap.
This is where it got a little cloudy.
All I remember is seeing him take a wallop at his ball and yelling, “Billy, heads up!” I saw the ball screaming toward me, and I raised my putter in some sort of weak defense. The ball hit off my putter — never losing speed, mind you — and struck me in the left forehead area.
I went down.
As I lay there, dazed and chewing on the well-manicured grass, my pals gathered around me. I couldn’t move, but unknown to them, I could still hear.
“Is he alright?” one asked.
“I don’t know,” said another.
“Maybe we should give him mouth-to-mouth,” another asked.
“What did you get on the last hole?” asked another.
That sums up the lack of compassion in this group. Before they had to make the tough decision about whether or not to try to save my life, I began to stir.
I sat up, began to focus, and my head cleared — inside, anyway. Outside, I was growing another head. The bump caused by this line drive bunker shot was enormous, prompting one of the guys to say, “Billy, we’re going out tonight. That bump is huge.”
By now, a quick thinker had arrived with a bag of ice. I immediately applied it to my swollen head and held it there throughout the round. I parred that hole and, by the way, I was the low man in the group that day.
That was golf in my world.
Here’s another golfing mishap I had — and I wasn’t even on a golf course.
I was at a dinner — at an indoor restaurant — and I was hit in the face with a golf ball. Seems there was a miniature golf course on the other side of the dining room, and a big kid whacked a ball way too hard.
This is why my golfing now is limited to holes with windmills, felt fairways, and clown noses that light up.