I asked my golf buddy, Heels, what he thought.  ”So, what do you think, Heels?”

He slapped his hand to his forehead and slid it up, over, and down the back of his balding head. “I can’t think, that’s the problem here with this. Two weeks ago he could have given God four shots and still won by five. Now he comes to the freakin’ Masters and the freakin’ Am Tour guys are kicking his keester.”

That brought a chuckle out of me.  ”The Am Tour.  Sweet.”

The HD flat screen displayed a huge expanse of Georgian green manicured with razor-cut precision by probably a team of OCD patients.

“Phil shot a 68,” Heels said around a mouthful of beer.

“I’m not thrilled.”

“Never am.”

“I miss his breasts.”  My comment virtually squeezed Heel’s cheeks and beer rocketed all over the dog, Balls, who patiently licked it off.

“Don’t do that to–” Heels shot to feet, pointing at the TV.  ”Did you see that squirter?  Charles Barkley hit better shots than that!  And that’s freakin’  Tiger W.T.F. Woods!”

I slapped my own forehead.  ”Between shots like that and missing all those putts, I’m gonna have a heart attack. I’m too old to be a Tiger fan, I just can’t take it, I can’t take it, I tells you.”

“There’s still nobody freakin’ better.”

“Potentially.”

“Well, yeah, okay, potentially.”  Heels shook his head back and forth with his thoughts and sighed.  ”There’s always tomorrow.”

“Brilliant observation, Nostradamus.”

“You never know.  And by the way, you aren’t that old.”

“How would you know, you old coot.”

“I’m younger than you!”

“You’re just proving my point, Heels.”

“I’ve gotta get home.  Gotta play kissy with the pool and fill up the wife. What?  Oh, damn, you know what I mean. This Tiger thing has me really frustrated, I have to admit it, and I kind of feel like a fool even admitting it, but  I reeeeally want him to win, to smash Jack’s records, to get a good grip on the best player who ever lived, so all this frustration and rooting for him over the years was worth it and not just wasting my life!”

I stared at Heels for a minute. What he’d just said was pretty profound, or at least insightful.  ”Yeah, you know, one thing Tiger has going for him that few other golfers do is that potential thing–that, at any minute, he COULD turn it around, he COULD win.  Any day, any tourney, against anyone.  It is totally possible.”

“Guess that’s better than being a die-hard fan for a hyped-up golfer who never wins.  I won’t mention any names.”

“Don’t. We know who they are.”

“Mostly everybody except Tiger.”

I shot Heels with my fingers.   “Go kiss your pool, Heels.”

He smiled and bent to pet Balls goodbye.  ”The dog smells like he’s been on a bender.”

“Must be a Tiger fan.”

###

The Masters is in full swing, which signals the unofficial beginning of the golf season. It’s also time to post my Top 10 Pet Peeves in Golf. Feel free to comment on yours.

1.   References to “golf action” during tournament telecasts are the ultimate oxymoron. Sorry, but there is no action in golf.

2.   he common practice on the LPGA of caddies lining up full shots and putts while the player addresses the ball. C’mon, knowing how to aim at a target is a fundamental of golf. If you need to be constantly reassured that you’re lined up correctly, you shouldn’t be playing on such a big stage. Besides, the movement of caddies in and out of the frame is totally disruptive to TV coverage.

3.   TV references to a “makeable putt.” Every putt is makeable, unless Earth suddenly stops spinning and gravity is suspended. Of course, distance or undulations may make holing certain putts highly improbable, but under the right set of circumstances they can drop.

4.   Augusta National Golf Club’s stubborn refusal to even discuss membership issues, let alone invite a woman to join. (Although for all we know, IBM CEO Ginni Rometty or former U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice may be members, but haven’t yet donned their green jackets.) I agree that private clubs should able to set their own rules and policies. But Augusta National has forfeited that right because it rakes in so much public money via the Masters. You can’t be private just 51 weeks out of the year.

5.   Sandbaggers (or bandits, if you live in the UK). Is there anything more pathetic than someone who inflates his handicap just to pocket a two-dollar Nassau or take home a little piece of hardware for winning the D flight in the club championship?

6.   Bunker rakes in golf carts. More often than not you either forget to take the rake when you walk to the bunker to play the shot, or you forget to return it to the cart. When the former happens, pace of play suffers. When the latter happens, you either don’t have a rake the next time you hit one into the sand – and thereby screw the next person who hits into that bunker because you couldn’t rake it – or you have to borrow one from the other cart in your foursome, which not only slows play (again) but also runs the risk of you forgetting that rake, too, and really sticking it to those behind you!

7.   Courses that discourage or prohibit walking.

8.  People who don’t know, or ignore, the etiquette of parking carts around greens. Don’t drive to your ball; instead, park at the spot nearest where you will exit the green as you go to the next hole, then walk to your ball. That way, after your group holes out, the people behind you don’t have to wait while you backtrack for the cart.

9.   People who don’t fill divots in the fairway or repair ball marks on the greens. The game is tough enough without having to hit from craters and putt over gouges.

10.  Fiberglass rake handles. Have you ever gotten a splinter from one of those things? They hurt.

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Dave Seanor, Golf Examiner
Dave is an Orlando-based, scrappy 11-handicap who’s been a sports journalist at three major newspapers and two national golf magazines. He has covered the “Royal and Ancient Game” in 18 countries, once teaming with Nick Price to win a Pro-Am in Morocco. See this article on Examiner.com.