Seven Stroke Sermon

The following column was originally published in June of 2004. 

To some people, golf isn't a game.  It isn't a sport.  It's something much more important.  To them, golf is a religion.

Just as in discussions about religion, people basically fall into one of three categories: non-believers (folks who don’t golf), followers (players who manage to find the links once a month), and zealots (people who believe Jack Nicklaus’s  birthday should be a national holiday).

It’s easy to distinguish between the zealots and the non-believers.

Non-believers bravely denigrate the sport with remarks about a “dumb game where guys in funny pants chase a dumb little white ball with a dumb crooked stick,” or refer to it as “cow pasture pool.”

Of course, like an atheist at a Southern Baptist revival, you won’t hear them say it out loud at the country club.

Zealots are even easier to recognize.

Your average Christian probably has at least one cross necklace or a “What Would Jesus Do” wristband.

LDS brethren can be distinguished by their “Choose The Right” rings.

Our Jewish friends wear the Star of David.

Golfing zealots wear anything that reeks of golf.

It’s the only time you will find grown men who think black and white saddle shoes are stylish.

They usually have at least one car with “I’d Rather Be Golfing” on the license plate holder.

Twice a day, they try to pay for a soda with the ball markers they carry in their pants pockets.

If they’re good golfers, their den is decorated with golf trophies and plaques.

If they’re bad golfers (bad golfers rarely admit they’re bad golfers, you have to ferret it out), their den is decorated with pictures of good golfers.

They may have trouble finding their way from Walmart to the post office, but can navigate their way around 18 holes at the CasaBlanca.  Blindfolded.  Stuffed in a golf bag.  In the middle of a sandstorm.

They will ignore weeds in their front lawn and pretend they don’t know how to use a vacuum cleaner at home, but will spend twenty minutes repairing fairway divots or lifting ball marks on a public course.

Golfing zealots usually offer a blank stare when you ask them the date of their wedding anniversary, but can give you the exact date, time, and wind direction when they eagled the fourth hole at The Palms.

When singing the praises of “BoBo,” chances are good that they’re not talking about their pre-teen son or family dog, but their favorite Callaway club.

(If you don’t know what a Callaway club is, see “non-believer” above.)

The Vatican serves as the headquarters for Catholics.

Our Jewish friends have Israel.

Muslims have Mecca.

Golfers have Mesquite.

This land is blessed above all others, with seven beautiful golf courses and a climate that allows pilgrimages even in the dead of winter.

People come from all over the country to walk the hallowed ground blessed by a Messiah named Palmer.

Seven days a week you can find people worshipping at the tee-box altar.

And when they die, all golf zealots share the same hope:

That God will greet them at the pearly gates wearing black and white saddle shoes, carrying a large golden book that confirms they have an 8 a.m. tee time, before being led off to eternity in a pristine white golf cart that says “I’d Rather Be Golfing” on the license plate holder.

Brain Implants A Better Bet

                                        (Photo by Roland Darby)

The following column was originally published in April of 2006. 

While attending a recent function at a libations facility (what we used to call in the old days “a bar”), I noticed a young woman who wanted to be noticed.

It’s just one more indication that I’m getting old, because instead of taking notice because of her large breasts and thinking “Wow, those are large breasts,” I noticed and thought “You know, she could have put that $5,000 to much better use.”

I’m sure you’ve encountered these women before; the kind that somehow managed to get their hands on five grand and decided that stocks and bonds weren’t nearly as valuable an investment as a good set of implants.

Usually, as in this case, it’s someone who was already attractive but felt that God’s handiwork just wasn’t quite good enough.

Like Dennis Miller, I’m always amused when someone has this procedure done, then gets that surprised look on their face when the Surgeon General suggests that maybe filling an important body part with the same substance used to grout the tile in your bathroom isn’t such a great idea.

Some of the more sophisticated women with money to burn and time on their hands often purchase that particular procedure the way some people buy new cars. 

They don’t really need it, but they have to keep up with the Joneses.  Or the Spearses.  Or the Kardashians.

Then you have those like the one in question, who make the purchase then want to drive around town with their new "Corvettes" so everyone will notice them.

I began to think about all the things this individual could have put that money toward which would have given her better dividends.

For example, the money could have been better spent on an English language tutor.

With just a few short lessons, “Iuntnuthrbeeeer” could actually sound like “I want another beer.”

(Did you ever notice that the people who use the word “Iuntnuthrbeeeer” are usually the ones who need another beer the least?)

Wardrobe would have been another more reasonable expenditure.

The woman in question could have bought a couple dozen t-shirts that said “Look at me!” in 24-inch letters and still had enough left over for those English lessons while producing the same result as the implant option.

Speaking of lessons, dance lessons might have come in handy.

One of the unfortunate by-products of this particular body enhancement is that it makes it nearly impossible to slow-dance with someone without looking like you’ve invoked the “book rule.”

The “book rule” is one that used to be imposed at school and church dances, where proctors who felt boys and girls were dancing too close would take a thick-tomed book and place it between the couple with the admonition “no closer than this.”

The difference is that in this case, the book is replaced by silicone.

Then of course is the alternative of taking those five g’s and putting them toward a college degree.  Not a four-year university diploma, mind you, but five thou can get you a pretty decent AA degree from a community college.  Unless your name is “Bambi” or “Blaze,” a certificate in dental hygiene is probably going to earn you more money than some new appendages that will soon have their own nicknames.

Fewer dates, maybe, but more cash.

Personally, my favorite nickname for fake bazoombas is “fire hydrants.”

There is an obvious similarity in shape.

But more importantly, like real fire hydrants, their biggest attribute is the number of dogs that inevitably will come sniffing around.

You would think that a man my age would have an appreciation for artificial breasts.

But like I said, I’m getting old.  Staring down the barrel of a future that will probably involve an artificial hip, artificial knees, and artificial heart valves somehow makes the idea of one more artificial body part much less appealing.

Yes, even that one.

What Is A Sport?

 (Photo by Grant Cochrane)

This column was originally published in June of 2004.

What is a sport?

According to the American Heritage dictionary, sport is defined as “physical activity that is governed by a set of rules or customs and often engaged in competitively.”

Another entry in the Websters Revised Unabridged dictionary says “that which diverts, and makes mirth; pastime; amusement.”

Some people believe an activity must involve a ball in order to qualify as a sport.

Others with a more liberal viewpoint would argue that any competitive event can be counted.

Some folks insist that NASCAR is a sport. 

If that’s true, then I become an athlete every Thursday when I make 400 left turns around the Virgin River parking lot looking for a place to hang my station wagon race car, prior to making a few victory laps around Victoria’s Buffet.

Is poker a sport? 

ESPN, the arbiter of all things deemed sport, says it is.

I must admit, it’s one of the few sports which feature athletes surrounded by cigarette butts and half-empty glasses of Jack Daniels, but I understand Babe Ruth managed a few home run records in such surroundings.

Since there is a “World Series of Poker,” I think we would have to mark “yes” by that one.

Does the cloak of athletics extend beyond the poker table to the blackjack table?  How about craps?  Is that a sport?

And if those games of chance qualify, then slot machines must be included as well.

Actually, I’d like to see the slot machine event added to the 2012 Summer Olympics. 

Face it, the American team has a better shot at winning gold in the “White Diamond” three reel event than they do in men’s soccer.

If you are a traditionalist that insists an activity must involve a ball to qualify as a sport, then I guess roulette would have to count.  Since the game also involves a wheel, I think NASCAR fans will back me on this one.

If you buy into the Websters definition of “that which diverts, and makes mirth; pastime; amusement,” then newspaper sports sections are wide open for just about anything, including next summer’s Republican and Democratic conventions.

For those partial to high-scoring competitions, a couple of lines can be added to local sports coverage for the “Battle of the Convenience Store Gas Pump Prices,” where the numbers climb faster than a Lakers-Timberwolves basketball game.

There are purists who support anything which involves whacking something with a stick, like baseball or hockey or cricket.

Does that mean sportswriters should report on every kid’s birthday party which involves a piñata?

And if so, should they use the American scoring system where points are based on the number of candy items that hit the ground, the Argentine scoring system that grades on distance, or the Blue Cross scoring system that counts the number of post-party children visiting the emergency room with missed-pinata-whacking injuries?

Many sports involve uniforms with numbers on the back, so I guess sports writers should be busy the next time a crew from the state prison drops by to pick up roadside litter.

If a sport must involve a “score,” like figure skating, then sports fans should start visiting some of the local bars around two a.m.

Unfortunately, I suspect the place will be full of Canadian Olympic skating judges, meaning lonely guys awarding “tens” to girls that the rest of the world would only consider a three.

I’d like to hear from you.  Do you think poker counts as a sport?  What other sports do you think do or don't qualify for this label?

Send your opinions and suggestions to me at workman@morrisworkman.com.

And of course, I’ll be counting your replies.