PITTSBURGH — Let us begin this sordid tale with a memorable quote from singer/songwriter John Gorka, talking to his audience at Pittsburgh's now-defunct Graffiti (what a place!) in the mid-1990s.
He spoke of a relationship that had fallen apart because “both of us were crazy about her, but neither one of us cared too much for me.”
I could relate. I’ve never been overly fond of myself — and what’s happening now is only making the situation worse.
I’m becoming a golf guy.
It hurt to type that sentence. But it’s the truth. The sad, pitiful truth. Like some cursed Stephen King character I watch helplessly as I am transformed into something horrible, something unrecognizable, something that walks into Dick’s Sporting Goods and buys full-length, light-weight golf pants.
I am suddenly the guy who takes phantom golf swings in the workplace, complete with an interlocking grip.
I’m the guy who may or may not have kept his daughter waiting an extra 10 minutes at school so he could hit five more balls at the range.
Two months ago, I despised this exclusive, expensive, time-consuming game. I refused to call it a sport. I would often repeat a line from long-ago Buffalo News columnist Larry Felser because it rang so true: “Watching golf is like watching grass grow.”
Now?
Now I'm intently watching someone named Patrick Reed play a practice round at the U.S. Open, looking for any little tip I can find (I didn’t even know I had The Golf Channel until a few weeks ago). I watch senior golf. I watch college golf. I even watched a Netflix documentary on kids golf called “The Short Game.”
Did you know Anna Kournikova’s younger brother was an internationally recognized youth golfer?
Something is happening here, and I’m not entirely sure what.
But I know who to blame.
If you read King’s novel “Thinner,” or watched the movie, you know the plot. An obese lawyer (probably a golfer) accidentally kills a Gypsy woman, escapes legal punishment and is cursed as he leaves the courtroom when an old Gypsy man with a rotting nose whispers the word “thinner” into his ear.
The lawyer subsequently withers away, even though his eating habits remain the same.
Let’s just say one Mark Ray of Moon is the Gypsy man of my story.
Mark’s in his 40s. He is the father of one of my daughter’s softball teammates, and he invited me to play golf at Montour Heights four months ago. I told him basically everything I’ve told you, and that I would be an embarrassment.
He kept pressing, for reasons unknown. And for reasons unknown, I finally relented. I borrowed (OK, stole) a set of clubs from Bob Pompeani and off I went, like an innocent kid to college, never to be the same.
I stunk that day. I whiffed more than Wilmer Difo, literally missing the ball on several swings. I hit trees. I killed ants. I lost at least a half-dozen balls.
Do you know what kept me coming back?
You probably do, if you’re a golfer. It was the one or two shots I hit well. Something about the sound of a well-struck ball. Something about the flight of it.
And that magical double bogey on No. 9? I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Any of it.
The good shots are like drugs, and now I cannot stop. I can’t seem to repeat one — the instant I start feeling good, I get clubbed in the face — but am suddenly possessed with the unquenchable desire to keep chasing the next good shot.
My God, I bought Ben Hogan’s “Five Lessons” and am reading it with glee. I just spent three vacation days visiting practice ranges. I’ll spend large swaths of the weekend watching the U.S. Open. I’m playing 18 holes Saturday at Montour. I even took a lesson from the revered Ed Vietmeier, and he didn’t laugh at me. He called one of my drives “A-plus.”
So yes, I’m officially gone. But before I leave for good, I need a question answered.
I need to ask Mark: Why did you continue to invite me to play?
I texted him that question early Thursday morning.
“I think it was the idea of how much you didn’t want to go that kept driving me,” he replied. “And seeing your tendencies of pacing around the softball field, I knew once you started it would drive you nuts like the rest of us tortured souls who golf.”
Fair enough, but do you realize what you’ve done?
“I would like to say I gave you a great hobby and enjoyment for life,” he said. “But in knowing you, I’m probably partially responsible for putting you on a path that will eventually consume you entirely.”
Thanks, man. I appreciate that.
Our tee time Saturday is 4:04 p.m., correct?
