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.
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