Hello duffer. Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Duffers Are People Too support group. Group hug.
I know you were hesitant to come here. It feels like confessing that you don’t know how a door handle works. I mean, how difficult can this game be, right? One ball, a pile of metal thingies to whack the ball around and a lot of nicely-manicured grass – all of which you’ll destroy beyond recognition in a few short hours.
But that’s OK. Remind yourself that you were born this way. It’s not that you don’t like golf, it’s just that golf doesn’t particularly like you. Thing is, you have to learn to embrace your dufferness.
You know the feeling. You’re 97 yards away from the pin, someone gives you detailed instructions on what shot and club to play and all you hear is “Hulk smash ball!” Nineteen shots later you’re tapping in for “par”, assuming par is now 38, of course factoring in your handicap (which, for you, is everything you do on the golf course while breathing).
Thing is, your game is value-conscious. While those elite buffoon showoffs have spent five figures on their clubs and attire, you arrive in a 27 year old college polo shirt and balls that have more dirt on them than most carrot farms. Those guys will whack the ball a measly 82 times while you’ll abuse yours more than double that. Your cost per shot ratio puts theirs to shame. If nothing else your game is one of value.
Hell, you’re also creative. Where in the rule book does it say you can’t use your foot to nudge the ball ahead? OK, I mean other than those twelve mentions in bold print that nobody bothers to read anyway. Don’t let 187 years of stuffy decorum determine how you roll. Golf and monkeys both need to evolve.
Your game is both scenic and adventurous. For one, you see way more wildlife than they do. That’s the inherent benefit of being in the woods so much. You also use both sides of the scorecard and your pencil is sweating by the time you reach the clubhouse, not to mention that your ball should have an odometer. Meanwhile Jimmy Pleated Pants freaks out when the left-to-right break was actually right-to-left. Oh, the horror. Poor bugger won’t sleep for weeks.
At the end of the round, he’s sitting in the clubhouse lamenting the three inch slope he misread while you’re enjoying a beverage and writing apology letters to the nine squirrels you put in intensive care. When it’s all said and done who really enjoyed their experience more?