Re-infected by golf? Could be

I used to have golf bad, but they have pills so I’m over it now. Or so I thought.
Time was when I was a wild-eyed, hair-in-flames, drooling golf fanatic of the worst kind. Rabid passion and fanaticism, though, should not be mistaken for skill, especially where yours truly is involved. Turns out being able to actually play the *&%# game is not a prerequisite to loving it. A love which, at least for me, was reciprocated only rarely.
Still, I played on ... and on ... and on. Endlessly. This was back when I first caught golf from my kids. The place was Lexington. The time? It’s enough to say the kids, all now grown and married for years, were part of the Lexington State Bank Junior Golf Program at the time.
A day or two each week I’d drive the young ‘uns out to Lakeside Golf Club and hang around until time to bring them home again. What to do while idling amidst all that manicured turf? The fateful answer turned out to be, “Buy a couple baskets of balls, pilfer a club from one of the boys and go hit ‘em on the range.”
Thus was the germ first ingested. Golf quickly gained a foothold. Next thing I knew I was frantically trying to get in a hole or two at any opportunity. I was bad, but willing to suffer blisters and throbbing knees to get better, which I did. But not much.
So began my Golf Period. By the time I finally pulled the plug years later I’d played the nasty Heritage Hills of McCook, plus the likes of Teton Pines and Jackson Hole Golf and Tennis, the 9-holer at Dubois, Wyo., as well as Olive-Glenn in Cody, Wyo., both the Gold and Silver courses at the U.S. Air Force Academy, Patty Jewett in Colorado Springs and a private Springs club we blustered and BS’d our way onto. The others elude memory.
I never got anything close to good at the game, but the boys and I sure did see a lot of great looking grass and mountains and streams and stuff.
Eventually, as has become my habit, I managed to ruin it all for myself with pure obsession. Impatience. Unreasonable expectations. The cumulative effects of 35 years puffing a pack a day (been off the butts almost five years now though). All of it added up to hanging the bag on a hook in the garage and leaving it there.
Then ... a setback.
Brother Jim sweet talked me into playing a scramble in his town. Complicating matters is that ‘his town’ happens to be Scottsbluff. We played a wonderfully scenic course in Gering called Monument Shadows, which by my tripmeter lies 361.7 miles or thereabouts due west of York. I said yes, figuring even I could afford gas for 361.7 miles. Then what? You guessed it. Once out there it dawned that it’s 361.7 more miles back.
As for the golf itself, I took enough balls to lose one for each of the 18 holes and still not run out. Happily (those who’ve seen me in action would say ‘incredibly’) I played the same Nike ball from end to end. Absolutely key to losing zero golf balls was the fact my mis-hits typically died short of the ladies’ tee for easy retrieves. Out of bounds, I can report, comes into play only for those possessed of skills adequate to reach it. Me? Nary a single OB all day. Not even close. Pretty sad, huh?
So for the first time in 10 years, probably longer, I stepped up on the tee and hit away. Most shots were found wanting, but there were definitely moments ... like those two drives and that smooth 9-iron that landed stiff pin high and just left. Helped get our team a birdie there. Those three swings sure felt good. A couple others, too.
Oh, oh. Is that the ominous shadow of hope creeping in? Better find those pills quick or sure as shootin’ the demon will have me in its grip all over again.
Contact — stephen.moseley@yorknewstimes.com