30 March 2007

Thoughts about golf…

Filed under: Ponderings

I took a walk today.

I’ve been doing a lot of sitting lately, and thought it might be a good idea to get out into the world a bit and get some exercise. I walked for about an hour, and feel good now afterwards. I was wondering if I would have any pains or anything, since I’ve been sitting on my ass so much of late, but none to report.

We live in an area of Scottsdale called Kierland. Well, actually I guess if you want to be really literal about it, we live on the fringes of said area (Kierland Heights, perhaps?), because our house isn’t worth $800,000 like the ones down in that area. But we’re close enough that only a cartographer, a Realtor, or one of the saps that paid $800,000 for a house down there would argue if we said that we lived in Kierland.

Anyway, for those of you that don’t know, which I would hazard to say is all of you, Kierland is a new part of North Scottsdale that was built around a new golf resort hotel called the Westin Kierland. It’s a nice looking place, I’ve never been inside, but it looks nice from the road, and the golf course, which we have to drive by to get to our house here in sub-Kierland is very fetching.

I’ve always liked golf courses for some reason, but never really played golf. Not seriously anyway. I used to play it when I was a teenager with my friend Tom when we would sneak onto the Rye Golf Course via a canoe we paddled over from his house on the other side of Milton Harbor. We’d sail over there with our three clubs, one putter (we shared of course) and a few balls that we either stole from the driving range or found on the road and stash the canoe in the rocks on the beach (I can’t believe now that no one stole it, was a simpler time I guess). We’d then hike a little bit into the woods near there which came out on the 6th hole, if I remember correctly, blend into the mix (there weren’t a lot of people on there most of the time) and play around the course to the 17th hole which was on the other side of the beach (and away from the clubhouse which contained a rather terse Scotsman who would chide us for jumping the course without paying the green fees). Afterwards we’d stash the clubs and any new balls we “found” in the canoe, hike back to the snack bar and have a grilled cheese sandwich with fries (which if I remember at the time was 2 bucks) and then take the canoe back to Tom’s house on the other side of the harbor. Fun times.

So other than that and few other games played with Tom at real courses in Michigan about a decade later, where he lived at the time, aside from some trips to the driving range I’ve never really been a player of the game, but have always liked it. I watch it on television occasionally, much to the consternation of Pam who can’t comprehend why I’m interested in something so boring to begin with, much less on television when I’m not even involved in the game. But this is coming from someone whose chief sports interest revolves watching people careen down forest roads in compact cars at 120 MPH in all weather, so she can be excused for thinking that golf, or anything else for that matter that doesn’t involve death defying, boring.

But something I don’t understand is the carts. As I was walking along the golf course today on my walk I saw lots of golfers (whom I wondered why weren’t at work at 10am on Friday, if you can afford to spend a hundred bucks on green fees the money has to come from somewhere, but maybe they’re all old money or something), all of which were on golf carts. Not one of them were walking, as I was, along this beautiful golf course which someone had obviously spent considerable time and money making look absolutely beautiful. That just makes no sense to me. They spend all of their other hours driving around in their OVERLY LARGE SUVs, completely insulated from the outside world, and then when they actually have a chance to experience the great outdoors, they instead trade their cars for carts and drive around on little paths from one shot to another.

That makes no sense to me.

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