(These are Mark's views, not WAMU's views, AU's views, or any other U's views)
Bad golfers like myself always find plenty of other things to blame other than their own complete lack of skill.
The old clubs, the grass, the wind, the rules, the course design. At Montgomery County's proud stable of well-manicured and challenging public courses, I've found someone new to blame for my Saturday ritual embarrassments of "slicing", "shanking" and "scuffing".
Two recent incidents have convinced me that, yes, my hidden golfing genius IS being suppressed by an outside force.
The label on his battery-powered golf cart says "Player Assistance". He usually looms over the horizon after we've played about seven or eight holes. He's so comfortable in what we Brits call his "buggy" that he almost seems glued to the seat. He looks like he's lived in a shed attached to the clubhouse for at least thirty years. But he has that dusty wizened look of an old wind-battered golf servant who could string a few putts together in his day but never made pro. He's hugely unimpressed with all the golf fashion-accessorized hackers he observes on the course.
Just the sight of the buggy bumping over the hills towards us makes me nervous. Once, my partner and me had no one playing ahead of us, and no one playing behind us. And we were moving at a decent clip. I hit a mediocre but safe chip onto the 8th green. Then from behind he barked "Can't you hurry up a bit. You're lagging behind." A dozen potential expletive retorts came into my mind but I thought better of it. I was there to have a relaxing, enjoyable if expensive round of golf, and this self-appointed golf cop wasn't going to spoil it.
Then, last week, it happened again. We'd waited for an interminable time on the 13th tee for a four-ball in front of us to clear the fairway. Their ponderous body language suggested they were each living in a U.S. Masters' fantasy - studying putts from every angle - butts in the air, rehearsing their shots over and over.
Did the golf cop tell them to hurry up? No. He yelled at me. "Go on, tee-off. They're well out of YOUR range."
For once, the insult galvanized me. I struck a humdinger up the middle of the fairway. But "Player Assistance" was unimpressed. My partner was unsettled too. She'd been playing well, but scuffed this one into the bushes. "One ball please" he barked, telling her she couldn't take another try - a century-old custom in friendly amateur golf.
With Montgomery County lobbying hard for the
