But maybe this time, I rationalized, I’d be more successful. So with my good friend, Jeff, I go to a driving range, where we each buy a bucket of balls and carry them to where a row of guys are earnestly hitting toward signs reading “100,” “200” or “250.”
My good friend, Jeff, incidentally is a great golfer, a terrific tennis player and a snappy dresser. I hate him. He drops half a dozen of the balls onto the ground, takes half a dozen swings and watches each one disappear beyond the 250-yard sign. He does that for half an hour.
Meanwhile, I hit three balls that get up in the air and reach the 100-yard sign and a couple dozen that reach an elevation of approximately 8 inches and a distance of roughly 12 yards. The rest dribble sideways and come to rest in front of the guy three spots down from me.
All things considered, that half hour on the driving range has me convinced I’m in no danger of becoming addicted to the game of golf.
But, if I ever do, I’ll probably never have to walk very far to find the (expletive) ball.