Tags:
Journalism of Courage
I have never liked golf. In fact, I am of the firm view that it should be spelt backwards 8212; flog!
I have never understood the logic in hitting a ball and chasing after it. In cricket, when you hit a ball, 11 chaps rush to retrieve it and give you many more chances to hit it again from the same spot. So to me, golf is nothing but self-inflicted fruitless labour.
The only thing good in the game is that it has many other critics like me. This has in turn spawned a whole new genre of literature 8212; one focused solely on unravelling the mysterious allure of the game, which has often been labelled as 8220;the rich man8217;s way of playing marbles8221;.
Every time I am made to feel like a lesser mortal, I turn to one of the many golf stories doing the rounds and get my own back.
A golfer was once seen taking an unduly long time to hit the ball. As he swung the club forward and backward many times he was asked the reason for this delay. He explained that his ma-in-law was watching him play from the course balcony. He was told then that he was wasting time, as he would never be able to hit her with the ball from such a distance!
Then there is the story of a golfer who, on reaching heaven, was delighted to see a beautiful course and a fellow taking careful aim. The new arrival was informed that the fellow was aiming for a 8216;hole-in-one8217; over a distance of 500 yards with tall trees, ponds and bunkers in between. Amazed, he asked 8220;What? Does he think he is God?8221; The reply came, 8220;He is indeed, but currently he thinks he8217;s Tiger Woods!8221;
Fnially, I must admit that not everyone hates golf. In fact the game has its most ardent admirers in the wives of all the golfers. Their reason is simple. It keeps their husbands off their backs for many hours every day.
