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On Why I Do Not Play Golf
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By John McCumber
Security Technology & Design
In June my brother phoned me to offer my wife and me two complimentary tickets to the U.S. Open. Even though I am not a golfer, I understand this event is a relatively big deal, and took I him up on the opportunity to see the likes of Tiger Woods, Ernie Els, and Fred Couples play live at the beautiful Pinehurst #2 course about an hour away from my weekend retreat in North Carolina.
The forecast was what my brother refers to as Chamber of Commerce weather—sunny and warm with crystal blue skies punctuated by passing clouds that look like giant cotton balls. My wife and I dropped the top on her two-seater convertible and headed south. We turned up the CD player, ready to enjoy the trip as much as the planned destination.
About 20 miles into the trip, we were startled by a car horn blaring behind us. I looked over my shoulder to see a Mercury Grand Marquis with New Jersey plates begin to pass us on the right. The driver was gesticulating angrily to show us he was peeved we were cruising in the left lane of the highway at a mere four miles an hour over the speed limit. As the car passed, each of its three middle-aged male passengers—all wearing golf hats—shot us a steely glare.
I gave the driver a friendly wave and he responded by making a single-finger hand gesture I knew was not intended to tell me I was Number One, but I was enjoying the open cockpit and sunny weather too much to be annoyed. He floored the accelerator of his air-conditioned land yacht and swerved in front of us, racing ahead to the U.S. Open, no doubt.
About 10 miles later we saw him parked along the shoulder. I almost missed him because the North Carolina state trooper that was parked directly behind him with lights flashing initially captured my attention. We slowed down to honk and wave again. This time, he looked up and only gritted his teeth.
Later that day, my wife and I were seated in the viewing stands on the 15th green at Pinehurst. One of the U.S. Open contestants had dropped his initial drive on the far side of the green. The ball lay in the rough, down a little incline and out of sight of the hole. As he eyeballed this difficult shot, he swung his wedge absentmindedly at his side and managed to dislodge a piece of turf the size of a credit card. He walked back down the incline, checked his shot again, and then proceeded to chip the ball up onto the green.
After he had finished the hole and was walking off the green, one of the spectators jumped up in the stands and angrily called out, “Hey buddy, aren’t you going to fix your divot? Yeah you, you turkey! You made a divot! Now go back and fix it!” A security volunteer started toward the stands, but the big-mouth spectator had ducked out the other side. More golf angst.
