Obviously, I haven't learned a thing.
In my 23 years of existence I've been prancing around in my own little fantasy world thinking that I'm 'sub-par' when it comes to the demands of sports and participating in them. Of course, if I was to look back through my past, the list of my physical sports accomplishments is about as long as a hobo's grocery list if he had anything to write with.
However, I still relish in the fact that my t-ball team went 10-0 during the regular season in the summer of '93. Ahh, the Vanduser Tornadoes were a beast not to be tamed. Until the end of the year tournament when an unthinkable, sham of a loss squandered our chances at the perfect season. Yes, the glorious dream of my t-ball season died right there in that Bell City dirt.
But I keep trudging on.
My most recent lesson in humility was just last weekend. I was invited to participate with a group of golfers, that I hold in tremendously high regard, in the 3rd Annual Heath Self Scholarship Fund 4-Man Scramble Golf Tournament at the Sikeston Country Club.
After wiping away the tears of joy from just the thought of playing with such honorable, well-respected individuals, I suddenly realized just exactly who I was playing with. Real tears began soon after.
See, I'm not opposed to being the brunt of a joke. But, one day on the golf course with 'the camera guy', 'the old guy' and the guy that kind of looks, and plays, like John Daly with glasses, and I knew those few hours on the links would be filled with heckling, especially with me being the new guy and all.
It didn't start out too bad, as the John Daly look-a-like began with a quip about my shorts being too long to play golf in. I know golf is famous, or infamous, about it's fashion, but I'm not about to be caught wearing a pair of 1960's NBA shorts. I've got enough to worry about with my golf game being all out in public, much less anything else.
Like just about any other time I hit the course, things started with a bang. I was 'carvin' them up' as the kids today say, with my hooks and slices. I even unveiled a few new blades -- of grass, while going on treks to find my ball through the rough, which is what I call home. Good thing the old guy's cart was electric and he had recently charged it. I don't think I could have afforded the gas to 'putt' that thing around as much as we did chasing down my dozens of golf balls I used.
Man, I'm horrible at golf.
I do have to say to the seven people that read this, including my mother, that we did use one -- count it -- one, of my shots. ONE OF MY SHOTS WAS PLAYABLE! I'd shout that from the top of a mountain if there was one close by.
The John Daly with glasses kept our band of misfits afloat for the most part. The old guy was useful and the camera guy had his few moments in the sun, until they were over-shadowed by Daly's greatness. Camera guy's b-e-a-utiful shot that left his ball less than eight feet from the hole became a four-foot putt after Daly was all said and done.
I guess it just goes to show that you can't beat a guy whose shirt is just as loud as his mouth.
As the day wore on, I progressively got worse. Which, if you were to ask my teammates about it, they would have a truly hard time believing that. As we crept towards the last hole, I started to feel a sense of relief. The sound of that last ball plunking into the the very last hole was like a whistle signaling the end of a two-a-day practice.
As we all came together, we took our hats off to congratulate ourselves on a........come to think of it, what we did wasn't really worth praise but I guess we tried to fool ourselves into thinking we were gentlemen so, we shook hands anyway.
As we broke from our small pity party of handshakes, the old guy, with his many, many years of wisdom, offered me a bit of advice.
"Chris," he said like old guys do, "take up tennis."
To which I so idiotically replied, "I've already tried that."
The sounds of laughter can still be heard if you stop and listen.
The lessons never stop, I guess.