I borrowed the in-law's car and drove over to the Monona Golf Course yesterday and hit balls on the driving range. Absolutely beautiful. The earth is so lush here. The grass seems to grow with a banzai mentality as if it wants to somehow out-run the coming winter. The clubhouse starter directed me to the driving range, "Just head out past the ninth green. It's out there," he said. I walked out that way, but had trouble finding it, because, amazingly, there was no path through the grass. The grass grows so fully and quickly that no path is formed. I used a bag of old clubs that my in-laws found after someone moved out of a condo in their complex. They were standard length and so an inch shorter than my long "plus ones." I had a hell of a time hitting the ball. I blame the clubs. I want to go play a round on Monday or Tuesday, but I may not have the right tools. No glove. No tees. No balls even. No balls? Maybe that's the key. I'll do everything the same. Just not use a ball.
"Did you see that one? A hundred and fifty yard eight iron. Damn. I don't hit like that at home," I'll say after watching the imaginary ball soar down the fairway.
Anyway. They have beautiful municpal golf courses in Wisconsin seven or eight months out of the year.
No comments:
Post a Comment