who's your caddy?

the other day i learned something about myself. i cannot golf. normally, something like that wouldn’t bother me in the slightest. but given my DNA, this couldn’t be worse news. i grew up on a golf course. i hit golf balls all day with tiny clubs at the age of four. my dad was a golf course pro in west bountiful and he designed and built the golf course in nephi with his bare hands (and a john deere tractor). he even invented a golf club designed to perfect your swing and patented it! pretty much every day after school was spent at the golf course – though usually playing by the pond, catching guppies. but i do remember hitting range balls from time to time, and i knew the official golf club grip by age 3.

so i went with lori the music sherpa the other day to hit range balls at mulligans. it was fun – but i couldn’t help feeling a bit frustrated as i repeatedly smacked the fake turf with the club and almost hit lori in the back of the head at least a dozen times. i just knew that i should be inherently better than this. my dad would surely shake his head in disappointment if he could see me swinging a nine iron like a spaz. and i’m sore! who knew that hitting a few range balls would give you sore muscles and kill your grip for three days! clearly i just need some practice. perhaps i even discovered a hidden talent/passion that’s just been waiting to be set free. if pro golf girls didn’t look so butch, i might consider it. maybe i could be sponsored by forever 21 and etnies instead of nike. i could be the anna kournikova of golf! it’s quite possible that i’m sitting on a veritable gold mine and i don’t even know it. i mean, happy gilmore is one of my favorite movies – that can’t be a coincidence. you might even say that hitting range balls all summer long is my duty. that i owe it to the family to find out if i am indeed a golf ingénue. it could happen.

yeah, and grizzly adams had a beard.