Parrothead Ramblings

Nothing like an afternoon of
competitive athletic endeavor.

I'm in a Crime Dog quandary. You see, I'm an avid golfer. A shitty one, but avid nonetheless. Better then some, worse than most. I played last week with some of my fellow private crimefighter types. Greg, who was about as good at this silly game as me (breaking 100 is a red-letter day), and two guys named "Brian." We'll just call them "Denver Brian" and "Tucson Brian." I thought I was bad, but the Brians were two of the worst golfers on the planet. They were very proficient, however, at the other half of the golf equation: drinking. Oh, and cursing. The afternoon was an unending cacophony of whack!, followed by "FUCK!" Tee shot: Whack! FUCK! Approach shot: Whack! FUCK! Pitch to the green: Whack! FUCK! It was sort of the reverse of a bad skydiving experience, which is "FUCK!" Whack! Tucson Brian is the only guy I know who can literally hit a drive straight up into the air, thus sending the rest of the foursome scurrying off the tee box, seeking cover. Then, there was the incident where our cart was bushwhacked by a low flying Canada goose. Friggin' Hoser nearly took us out on #18, flying right at the driver's side of the cart. I screamed like a little girl and bailed, because, quite frankly, I had no financial interest whatsoever in the future of the golf cart. Tucson Brian's reactions were so slowed by "The Tecate Effect" that he never even reacted to the Kamikaze goose, which somehow managed to miss. He then calmly slid over, assumed the duties of Chief Pilot and saved the cart.

But you know what? We had one helluva great time! One of the best golf days I've had in a while. Playing bumper car with the carts, drinking, making fun of one another, drinking, telling disgusting jokes, drinking, and...oh yeah: Playing golf. Afterwards, we went to dinner, and no one could even remember what they scored. We just knew the Brians lost.

Which brings me to my quandary: Just what the hell is golf, anyway? A game? A sport? An activity? I want desperately for it to be a sport, since none of my other pastimes qualify, and I really really want to be an "athlete." But I have to be intellectually honest about it. So, to try and resolve the question, I laid out some parameters:

1) A sport must require some degree of athletic ability. (Bye, bye, target
shooting. Damn!)
2) A sporting contest's winner must be decided on the field of play - not by a
judge or panel of judges. (So long, figure skating and gymnastics.)
3) A sport must require proper physical conditioning for one to become proficient
at it. (Sayonara, billiards.)
4) One's performance should not, repeat not, improve with the consumption of
alcohol or other mind-changing chemicals. (Adios, bowling)

Parameter #3 is a problem. John Daly and some of those other PGA fat asses have nearly sealed the deal. Phil Mickelson and his 2" vertical leap when he won last year's Master's didn't help, either. But then, ducking that goose (I love saying that) certainly took some athleticism and conditioning, I don't mind saying.

But, it's that last one that really troubles me. I shot better on the back nine last week, after going solo with a six-pack. I know, I know, it could have been a fluke. It was light beer, after all. But I've witnessed the phenomenon before. Last year at a Parrothead golf tournament, this guy ahead of me couldn't hit a bull in the ass with a board on the front nine. He sparked up a doob on the turn and shot something like a 38 on the back.

So help me out here, Parrotheads. I'm counting on you. What is it? Sport, or just a game? I need some answers fast here, because I have a tee time this morning and I'm not sure if I should grab a six-pack along the way.
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