Does not touch flagstick.
Does foursome elbow bump.
Brings their own water.
Doesn’t rake bunkers
Doesn’t play in leagues
Elevates the hole.
Rides golf cart alone
Stays a safe distance
Washes hands post-game.
So, I started playing golf in March
After a four-year hiatus
After breaking my wrist
Which is better in the warmer climate
And no, it did not improve my game.
I moved in December from the sometimes-frigid Mid-Hudson Valley
90 miles north of NYC, the coronavirus epicenter,
South to sunny Florida
Where the grass is sticky
In the rough
And the greenskeeper is
One of Satan’s disciples.
You know what I mean
He purposely fucks
With the cup angles
And there is no way
A human can prevail.
And you need thick skin
like 2 ml. Thick.
It can be devastating without Angel juice.
Psst… Angel aka Birdie juice can be had
But requires driving the green and sinking the ball in one putt or less on a par three.
Then along comes a pandemic
And I am seriously wondering
If someone opened the doors
To Hell or you know Purgatory
where the demons and the angels get together
for Jokes (about humans that are not Michelle Wie or Tiger Woods who choose to play golf)
and Spiked Juice.
Talk about rolling thunder
This is where the wings come off
Badass Angels and Demons compete
And no one plays with a punk-ass colored ball.
The winner gets to play 18 holes with a few humans.
It is a random draw, a spin on the roulette table. And only the spirits can win.
Which is why it is so exasperating to us humans. You never know who will show up. Or inside whom.
The game changes from day-to-day
Week to week
The challenge is real
The stakes are high
And there is no end
to the mind games.