Monday, August 17, 2009

Caddie Sacked

They say you haven't truly played a round of golf until you've been accompanied by a professional caddy. You know, a man servant (or a woman servant), to carry your bag, select the right club, hold all your paraphernalia, read the green and basically do everything but swing the club for you.

The whole notion of a caddy seems one step removed from indentured servitude. Frankly it's all a little too Jim Crow for me.

I can never see myself wanting to play with a caddy. I suppose if there were a business situation that dictated the circumstances I would succumb, but never of my own free will.

You see, I'm about a 40 handicap. That's when I'm lucky.

I have no trouble finding the fairway, just not on the hole I'm playing. I take divots the size of Rhode Island. And I've killed more fish with an errant golf ball than I have with a fishing pole.

Golf is a miserable 5 hour journey of unending humiliation.
I don't want to share it with anybody else.

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