Fore!

I must apologize to all my loyal fans out there. Both of you must have been wondering where TMC has been these past few weeks. See, it's like this: I ran out of gas. I had a flat tire. I didn't have enough money for cab fare. My keyboard got clogged with Skittles. An old friend came in from out of town. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts. IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD.

Or, maybe I got a new job.

If you had asked me what my dream job was, say, a year ago, I would have said playing golf for money. But, when you have a double-digit handicap that starts with a two, no one is going to fork over their hard-earned spinach to watch you hit a ball with a stick. And even though that may be true, a person like me can still make a living in the golf industry.

It all started in March of 2004. I had stopped shoving chemicals in my body about six months earlier, and on an unseasonably warm afternoon, found myself wondering how I was going to get through the weekend sober. I was just too damn nice out not to go get a good buzz on.

At that very moment, I received a phone call that would change my life. It was from a man who served as a mentor of sorts, and he had one simple question: "Hey, listen, me and a couple of other guys are going to go play a round of golf down at Haines Point. You have any interest in joining us?"

Golf? The answer was no. I thought to myself, I don't play golf. I've played about three rounds in my entire life, and I consider it to be a silly sport. In fact, that world would be a better place if they turned all the golf courses in the country - except for a few, maybe - into homeless shelters. Imagine that! All those cigar-smoking, overweight, misogynist blowhards would get to the clubhouse, armed with their overpriced clubs and their latest bad lesbian joke, only to find Tyrone Biggums hitting a crackpipe on the first tee.

No, I'm not a golfer. I don't like golfers. I can't play golf.

So naturally, I replied to my friend, "Sure, I'll play. I don't have any clubs or balls though, don't I need that stuff?" My friend assured me that golf courses carry those kinds of things.

Little did I know what was about to happen that day. I would become that crackhead, but instead of a glad pipe and a mini-blowtorch, my drug paraphernalia became irons, drivers and balls. Honestly, I don't remember exactly how it happened. The sun was out, the course looked beautiful and I hit a couple of good shots. I was hooked.

Soon, I was pricing golf clubs. Every ball was scrutinized for its properties. I learned the nuances of a stiff shaft vs. a flexible one; two-piece balls vs. three-piece; cavity back vs. blade irons. I finally settled on a decent set of Dunlop's and I was on my way.

I was obsessed. In the blink of an eye, everything revolved around golf. Then came the reality that golf is one very expensive fucking game.

People would ask me: "Hey, now that you aren't getting wasted anymore, you must be saving a lot of money, right?" Nope. All the money that used to go to bars et. al. now went to greens fees, cart rentals and new balls. It all amounted to about $500 a month. Something had to be done, or golf courses really would become homeless shelters, because I would just start sleeping there since I wouldn't be able to pay my rent.

Then the proverbial light bulb went off; why not see if you can find a course that needs weekend help? You could work one shift a week and play golf for free! Genius! But what golf course has that job?

God must have wanted me to play this game, because a few weeks later after another round of bad golf, I was sitting in the clubhouse of my local course when the head pro walked by. I casually asked, "Hey, do you need any help here on weekends?"

"As a matter of fact, we have one starter shift – Sundays from 6 AM until noon – that needs to be filled."

Sold!

Two years later, I am the manager of that golf course. Who'd a thunk it? Certainly not me.

But now, as manager of a golf course, certain realities have set in.

When you're the manager of a golf course:

• You don't call in sick; people call in sick to you
• Your schedule is but a suggestion
• Days off are like Monarch Butterflies; very rare and elusive, but oh so beautiful
• If you worked less that 60 hours in a week, you're worried that you didn't do enough
• You have eleventy-billion keys, and they all go to some lock somewhere
• When customers complain (and they do), they enjoy acting like it was your sole mission to ruin their day
• Teaching golf isn't as hard as playing golf – which is definitely a good thing
• Rain is simultaneously your best friend and worst enemy
• Employees are constantly looking to screw something up
• Everything bad is your fault. Everything good goes unnoticed.
• Golfers often are like children, and you're both mommy and daddy
• You play golf a lot less often than you used to
• Sleep comes easy

So there you have it.

It's a very strange feeling, looking forward to winter …

Evan Redmon is a freelance writer and editor. He has lived in Washington, DC for most of his life, with seven years of college down the drain in Madison, WI and four and a half years of doing nothing in particular in Boulder, CO. He has visited 39 of the 50 states in the Union (excluding Alaska and Hawaii) and can be reached at evanredmon@yahoo.com.