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Tag Archives: golf

My dad. Looking for that change I was supposed to give back.

If Mother’s Day is a sonnet, Father’s Day is a bullet point list. Dads don’t need the fancy words or deep sentiment (although it’s me, so I can’t guarantee a sentiment-free post, try as I might). Just a simple, straightforward shock-and-awe campaign of thanks. I will shock and awe you with my thanks because I’m glad you’re my dad! Sounds aggressive, but I’m pretty damn thankful. So here we go… I present the Father’s Day Bullet Point List of Dadness Day Listings Day of Dad Awesomeness:

 

  • If, as I mentioned in my Mother’s Day blog, mom is the original Jedi, then dad is the original Han Solo: less of the touchy-feely force stuff, more gumption, mechanically inclined, weathered, experienced, can always get you out of a jam. Han Solo dads may not always be so elegant and light-sabery, but they get the job done. Just like Han, dads tell you to toughen up. They act tough. Sometimes dads take you to sketchy bars where you cavort with bounty hunters.

 

He may not look like Han Solo, but he's done the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs. Way faster than your dad.

  • So you’re in a bar cavorting with bounty hunters. You ask, Dad, why are we here, in a bar with bounty hunters? And he says, It’s good for you. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. And at the moment he’s never been more obtuse. You scrunch your nose like something stinks and it does because you’re confused out of your small mind. You can’t imagine why he would utter such a thing. Eventually this moment passes, but there are others throughout your life. They are always uncomfortable or annoying or just plain maddening. Maybe it’s not always bounty hunters and bars like it was with my dad. Maybe it’s making you paint a fence against your will or pressing you take the heat for a ball through the neighbor’s window or making you read some boring, esoteric book. It’s always, he says, good for you. You still don’t get it. Time passes. After a while you come to expect his insistence on certain things. You oblige with less resistance. Then one day when you’re older it hits you: Dad was right. It was good for me. You still can’t fathom exactly how he was right or how he knew or how this forced apology or that chore helped you, but it did. It made you responsible, resilient, and capable. And Dad knew it would.

 

  • Dad gives good advice: move your thumb away from that nail, always check the oil, keep your hands off that girl, if that boy touches you then kick him in the balls, save your money, take it easy with the lighter fluid, check your mirrors, work hard, always be honest.

 

  • Dad gives the craziest advice: if you’re thirsty just suck on a rock, don’t ever ask for permission to play golf, if the ball is coming toward you lean into it and go to first, open it with your teeth, if it smells okay it’s okay to eat, always be honest.

 

  • Let’s be clear about one thing: golf is the most irritating game ever conceived. Sometimes I wonder if it was a joke that a few Scots dreamed up to see how stupid mankind really is. I’ve invented more creative cussing combinations on the golf course than I have anywhere else. All this and I continue to play this ridiculous sport. Why? Because I grew up playing it with my dad. He taught me everything I know and each time I go out—even when he’s not with me—I think about playing golf with him. I think about Dad trying to putt on the sand greens at the old Byers course and his congratulations after the first, and only, time I hit the ball straight. I think about watching the US Open with him on Father’s Day. So through all the discomfort of playing golf, there is a great deal of comfort because it’s Dad’s game. And though I may be an idiot for playing, it’s reassuring to know that there’s another idiot who I regard in high esteem with me.

 

  • Dad takes you on adventures. A few samples from the Bill O’Dell collection: canoeing in a gator-infested swamp (the canoe turned over), taught me to drive a manual transmission when I was about 10, careening down more the Strasburg overpass sled hill, whitewater rafting adventures, more hikes than I can count, an ocean liner gambling binge, several ill-advised ski runs, and many seedy restaurant visits because said restaurant has a “good patty melt.”

Me and Dad on an adventure.

  • Dads keep you safe. As a kid I would wake up in the middle of the night. I could never get back to sleep. So the drill was for me to go get my dad and wake him up. He would sleepily grab a blanket and pillow and take up a post on the living room couch while I tried to go back to sleep in my room. Being alone just didn’t feel right. It was dark. The house was creaking. Something in my overactive brain wouldn’t let me sleep when it was just me. But when Dad was there it was okay. Every so often I would call out, Dad? Yes, he’d say, patiently waking up. I’d pause for a minute, Just wanted to make sure you were still there. And he was always still there. So I fell asleep.

 

Dad,

  • You’re an awesome dude.
  • You have always put your family first and I admire you for that.
  • Thanks also for making me do things I didn’t want to do. I’m a better man for it.
  • I hope that I have it in me to be the same amazing father for my daughter as you have been for me.
  • I will need some more good/crazy advice.
  • You’ve done a great job raising four pieces of work. I mean that in a good way. We love you. Happy Father’s Day.

One of my favorites.

For a nothing-doer I’ve been awfully stressed lately. When I get stressed I get cranky and there’s only one thing I can do went I get cranky: rant. It’s about to happen. Don’t judge me. I hope you’ll keep reading.

Without further ado, I present to you my first annual List of Things that Might be Stupid or The 2010 Parade of Stupidity.

Humidity. Humidity, I’m pretty sure, is stupid. Think about this: I’ve walked outside my apartment during the summer and my glasses have fogged up. I’ve had to flip on my car’s defrost because of the humidity… DURING THE SUMMER. So stupid. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing a wetsuit and hanging out inside a giant mouth. It’s disgusting. Things get sticky. I chaff in certain places that I don’t like to talk about.

People Who Don’t Know When It’s Appropriate To Have A Loud Cell Phone Conversation. On a bus, in a quiet restaurant, at a golf tournament, in a doctor’s office, in a movie theater, in a napping lion’s enclosure, while you’re in the pool, when you’re in line somewhere, in a public restroom, at your arraignment, in a movie theater, in a movie theater. This is a short and very incomplete list of places and situations in which people do not need to start yelling into their cell phones. But without fail, someone always does and doing so is very, very stupid. Quite stupid. Sure, things come up, but not that often. Please don’t interrupt my bus ride by screeching into your cell phone about the totally hot guy you met at the party even though you were totally hammered, the guy who totally held your hair back while you puked and who’s so totally sweet. I don’t care. To deal with you he must have been totally hammered too and totally doesn’t remember you and totally lost your phone number and he totally wouldn’t call you anyway because you’re a total loser. Shut up.

Shut your trap, Buddy. No one cares.

Here’s the underlying problem: The convenience of cell phones has slowly conditioned us to believe that because they can be used anywhere, they should be. No, no, no. Save some conversations for the house.

My Hair. It’s always been a little stupid, but I don’t realize it until it gets longer than usual. That’s when I remember why I always cut it so short. I have what you might call a puffy problem. And the humidity (see above) doesn’t help anything. The longer it gets the closer I get to being able to safely ride a bike without a helmet.

The NBA. Overwhelmingly stupid and frustrating. Where do I begin with this one? How about with the officials who don’t really enforce rules anymore. Instead, they kind of, sort of call certain fouls on certain players, but only if the foul is really obvious or really imperceptible depending, of course, on the player committing the foul or receiving the foul and they bend certain, but not all of the rules to favor certain players and often they forget the rules completely to ensure that the game is exciting and they always look good doing it, making sure that they gesticulate wildly so as to show everyone how athletic they are and how, if they wanted, they could be playing basketball too and, most importantly, they ensure that at the end of the game the viewers know their names even though it’s ludicrous to know any official’s name in any sport. There’s no other sport in which the casual fan can notice and name so many officials. Officials are an apparatus of the game for God’s sake. We shouldn’t know anything about them. What’s next? Are the commentators going to start talking about the baskets before the game? Maybe discuss where the iron’s origin. Or, better yet, let’s make every one different so that the players have no idea how big it is. Maybe they can’t even get the ball through it. And they can also change rims after each quarter to really keep the players on their toes.

I’ve become so angry that this doesn’t even make sense.

I love basketball. That’s why I love the college game. The NBA, however, isn’t basketball anymore. It’s a player popularity contest and a showcase for officials who are given way too much leeway.

Soggy Apples. Nothing worse than being eager to sink your chompers into a nice crunchy apple only to find that the stupid thing is actually filled with apple sauce. Mealy texture, apple flesh falling apart before you can even chew. When this happens I sometimes pretend it’s a pear just to make myself feel better. This, however, does not take away from the stupidity of the situation.

Get after it, Pal.

Golf. Usually stupid. How else do you describe the act of trying to hit a little ball into a little cup? Twain was right, golf is a good walk spoiled. I’d like to go further by saying that golf is a good walk that quickly becomes an angry, obscenity-laden slog. Even more stupid, I continue to play it.

There are way too many good angry golfer pictures to choose from.

Parents Who Refuse to Recognize the Messes Generated by Their Children. Let me begin this rant by saying that I love ankle-biters; I am by no means anti-child and I understand that they specialize in making messes. But, parents of the world, if you go to, say, a restaurant and your child makes a mess of cosmic proportions at least recognize that some else will be cleaning it up. A simple “Sorry about the mess” will do just fine. I’m not asking you to get on your hands and knees and coral all the Cheerios on the floor. Just say thanks to the person who does.

P.S.-This segment is brought to you by a family of four who I waited on last Sunday, the children of which made a colossal mess by throwing rocks all over our outdoor dining area while the parents simply enjoyed their mojitos then quickly scooted out the door after leaving me 10%. Truthfully, the tip doesn’t matter. What matters is that I spent thirty minutes sweeping rocks back into the garden. An oopsy-daisy would have made it all better.

Moving. S-t-u-p-i-d. People say that a good friend will help you move. I’d never do that to a good friend. I say you should only ask people who you really, really hate.

Moving. Is. Stupid.

Pat Robertson. He insinuated that the people of Haiti had it coming because they don’t share his religious beliefs. Enough said.

Rants. They don’t make you feel any better. They only get you more worked up about the things you dislike and make you notice other things you didn’t realize you disliked in the first place. Dammit.