Don't talk to my ball.

There must be a thousand books written on golf. I have just one observation to add. It occurred to me when I played with my son and a mutual friend earlier this week. It was in my estimation a difficult course. However, my observation is valid irrespective of course difficulty.

Golf is sadistic. It is the only sport I know that the players make demeaning remarks about their play and holler negative remarks at themselves. I was an idiot not to see that bunker or the water. That was just stupid. I knew I had the wrong club. I just did not think. I will never play this game again. I lost focus. I know better than that. This course is beating me to death. I am being bitch slapped into oblivion. And as you know if you are a player, we accuse ourselves of much, much worse.

God is often called on to judge each shot or to send the ball with the club straight to the devil. Interestingly enough, except for the occasional inadvertent indiscretion by a fellow player,  we seldom blame anyone but ourselves. We pay good money for the opportunity to launch demeaning remarks at ourselves while waiting for that rare wonderful feeling that only comes with a kick-in birdie wedge shot, or a hole-in-one as I made in the photo. No problem, we can be heard say. It is a bizarre game only trumped by a mistaken belief about the power and the myth of ball talk.

For example, the players also futilely beg a small white object to follow oral commands. Slow down. Land softly. Down. Break. Kick.  Bounce left. And the players hurl sharp verbal epithets when such commands are not followed. Some players talk to your ball too with similar commands. It is hilarious when viewed with any logic. Fortunately, there is no logic to golf. At least, the way I play it.

I want to play again next week. My ball will do better as long as the other players do not talk to it too.