Golfers We’d Prefer To Avoid

Written by Joel Zuckerman

We all know golfers we’d prefer to avoid. Their antics can turn a pleasant day into a trying one and make us think we’d have been better off going out as a single. Here are three to be wary of:

THE BALL HAWK (CARPE STRATA)

Nobody likes to waste bullets. Whether you spend $5 or $50 a dozen, any player lacking a full-time bag toter or without their name stitched into their golf bag is reluctant to let a pellet go, at least not without a cursory search. The key word being cursory. Ball Hawks have a strain of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. They may not wash their hands every 10 minutes or repeatedly check to see the house is locked before work, but in a way their affliction is worse. They hold up the golf course ad infinitum, searching desperately for a bargain-bin castoff that no amount of cleaning will ever restore past the color of dull parchment. If it’s in the lagoon they’re ready to put on waders. If it’s in the woods they’ll don mosquito netting. These wackos need a cold dose of reality, the type once administered to me by my good pal Rhino. Whining a bit after taking some time looking for a shiny Top-Flite, I explained that normally I wouldn’t waste time on the task, but the ball was brand new. “No it isn’t,” rebuked the twice-a-year golfer, harshly. “You already hit it once.” True enough, upon reflection.

BIGFOOT (TERRA RUPTURAS)

This category has little to do with actual size or girth. For example, my teenage daughter and some of her friends are lovely and petite creatures, seeking out their haute couture in the “Small” section at their favorite fashion haunts. But when they descend the wooden staircase in clogs they sound like a herd of elephants or a massive avalanche. Actually it’s a combination---an avalanche of elephants. On the golf course, we can be thankful this disturbing phenomenon is still a rarity. You might be paired with a fellow who can’t quite get his feet off the ground while walking around the green, and the rake marks he leaves with his soft-spikes are literally and figuratively a drag. Even more uncommon (and undesirable) is the gent who somehow exerts more pounds-per-square-inch of pressure upon the delicate turf than it appears he’s able to. The result is a green with the type of distinct footprints one rarely encounters outside of an Arthur Murray School of Dance.

THE BOOZE HOUND (BREWSKI GULPUS)

Playing golf and drinking beer are among my favorite hobbies, though they’re rarely indulged concurrently. The rationale is twofold. First, it takes every ounce of energy and concentration for me to navigate the links efficiently. Despite this self-imposed sobriety, too often the final scorecard tally is a number closer to body temperature than par. Second, I’m a believer in the 19th hole. Here in the cool conviviality of the tavern, or from the back deck overlooking the final green, does one indulges in a couple of icy beers while recounting the triumphs and traumas of the completed round. But not everyone feels the same way. Mellow fellows lubricate with a beer or two per round. Those who rely on “swing oil” to keep their game together indulge in a couple per side. But the real problem child is that boozing nuisance who indulges in a beer or two per hole.

Excerpted from Joel Zuckerman’s third book—“Misfits on the Links.” Visit www.vagabondgolfer.com for more information or to order personalized copies