by Andy “Coach” Cotton “There’s a whole lotta things I’ve never done, but I’ve never had too much
fun.” -Billy C. Farlow
un seems like a hu-
man, universal concept. Everyone’s had some sometime. So it fol-
lows that an understanding of this concept should be unambiguous. I believed
this to be, as our Founding Fathers once said, self-evident. Anyone knows what
fun means. Then I played two rounds of late-July, Hill Country golf.
These experiences, with a revolving cast of eclectic duffers – a food critic,
a grocery salesman, a teenage boy, a submarine sandwich magnate, and a deli
manager – offered up a few things in common. One was the imminent danger of
becoming disoriented while hacking about in the bush looking for an errant
shot, suffering heat stroke, falling into the hostile fauna and being,
mercifully, quickly bitten to death by rattlesnakes. Early on, I had an
out-of-body experience as I scrambled like a billy goat, at the end of a
loooong par five, hunting for a snap-hooked approach shot deep into a vast
chasm in the earth’s surface, where the temperature was approaching 200
degrees. It’s too hot to drink beer. Advil is gobbled by the handful. Are we
having fun?
Well, certainly not in the commonly understood context of the term, anyway.
Sex might be understood as fun. A ride on a rollercoaster might be fun. A night
of whiskey and music might be fun. As defined by my dictionary, fun is “a
source of enjoyment, amusement or pleasure.” This is not my observation of the
golfing experience.
Was the sandwich tycoon, a veritable titan of industry, the patriarchal head
of a multi-million dollar corporation, the powerful motivational force driving
over 100 people to work ever faster, having fun when, after missing a four-foot
putt, he fell first to his knees and then sprawled, all dignity long ago gone,
on all fours with his nose buried like a chipmunk in the short, parched grass,
pathetically braying, “Dear God, why do you try me so?” The magnate is not a
religious man, and he was winning!
My playing partner, the deli manager, mistook me for the Wizard of Oz, as he
continually whimpered, “I just wanna go home. Please, can we go home now?”
For myself, I would gladly have voted to return home, but the sandwich magnate
was driving. In my despair and heat-addled confusion, I left two pricy irons
somewhere on a fairway. I lost 10 balls. I heaved a sand-wedge, with
considerably more loft than my shot had, high into tree. I was soundly trounced
by the snot-nosed, 14-year-old juvenile delinquent. He, alone, probably had
fun. His mom paid, and due to a fantastically complicated series of bets
arranged by the submarine sandwich tycoon, I owed the little twerp four dollars
at the end of the day.
Yet I’m certain that if in a few days I asked any of these hackers if they had
fun, they’d all answer yes. So, here’s my theory: Golf’s frustrating,
occasionally satisfying, and deceptively easy looking. It’s task-oriented,
goal-directed, and impossibility difficult… a corporate dream! A joyous
moment is infrequent and short-lived. Like an August cold front, it’s to be
savored. In short, it’s the perfect sport for anal-compulsive white people. A
perfect pursuit for the fair-skinned barbarians who swept across Europe and –
for fun no doubt – crossed the great ocean because “It was there.” Once here,
after they cleared away a few trees and killed all the Indians, the first order
of business was, doubtless, to build a golf course. It’s a grim sport for a
grim race. A sport for a guilt-ridden, anxiety-riddled people, a people who on
some primitive, genetic level know sin is sweeter with lots of punishment.
Watch a golf tournament and look for even the slightest glint of fun in the
eyes of the baleful, white competitors. Maybe a deep breath and a pumped fist,
perhaps a longing look toward heaven. Fun? I don’t think so.
You wonder why you don’t see too many black folks out on the links. Deion
looks like he’s having fun when he takes off someone’s head. Hakeem looks like
he’s having fun burying another Dream Shake. Hockey players, displaying their
menacing, wolfish, primal, toothless smiles, are having fun. It’s fun to beat
the shit out of somebody. Kirby Puckett looks like he’s having fun.
In conclusion, golfers are a sick breed of puppy. I’m amazed, as torturous and
painful as golf is, so many people line up, wait for many hours, and pay so
much money to have so little fun. A people such as this are not to be trifled
with.
Parting Shots: Big John Daly doesn’t look like he’s having all that much
fun, either. The big American, unlikely winner of last weekend’s British Open,
lives a chaotic life, out in the open for all to see. As opposed to all the
other postage-stamp, CEO, Republican golf pros on the tour, he has a life I can
relate to. A stormy marriage, a battle with Jack Daniels, and a sand-bunkered
career make him the kind of guy a red-blooded American can root for. He didn’t
give two shits about Jack Nicklaus’ continued television carping to play more
conservatively. He just got out his driver and took a bigger swing. Take that
Fat Jack!n
Goodie gumdrops, the Boys are back. My summer is made.
coach@auschron.com
This article appears in July 28 • 1995 and July 28 • 1995 (Cover).