Tomorrow I fly to Augusta, GA to watch the Masters — apparently a holy event for those who are into good walks spoiled, as Mr. Twain once wrote. I don’t now, and haven’t in the past, watched golf. Ever. My grandmother used to watch it on television and it looked glacial in its whispered pace.
I do not golf. I do not like golf. I tried, approaching the game in the early 90s out of curiosity, but quickly losing interest due to:
- Lack of patience
- Loathing of the clothing
- The time sink
- The rules
- The attitudes
I am quasi-left handed, which I think accounts for my ineptitude. I say “quasi-” because I eat and write southpaw, but I play sports (throw ball, swing a hockey stick) like a rightie. I think I was doomed out of the gate, something pointed out to me in a golf lesson by an exasperated pro.
So tomorrow I get to stroll down the sylvan fairways of the last bastion of CEO testosterone and whisper while guys competiting for a green blazer spank the Spaulding and tap the Titelist. I will promise to be on my best behavior.