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Woodrow Wilson once said “Golf is a game in which one endeavors to control a ball with implements ill adapted for the purpose”.  I’m sure our 28^th President was making no reference to the Kevin Costner movie Tin Cup, in which there is a scene where Costner’s character, Roy “Tin Cup” McAvoy plays a wagered challenge match with yard working tools in his bag instead of golf clubs, but he may has well have been, because it’s most appropriate. 

Golf is a beautiful game. It is, at the same time, both satisfying and humbling. It’s satisfying to me just to be on a golf course.  The way the grass smells, the way the early morning dew glimmers on the fairway horizons as the sun comes up, even the “smack” of golf clubs hitting practice balls on the driving range is pleasant to me. It’s humbling because my game is as rusty as an old Iron Gate swinging in the wind.  I dare speculate that it’s even a little humbling to evangelist Billy Graham, who said “The only time my prayers are never answered is on the golf course”.

Saturday I played golf for the first time in eleven years. Please note the irony in the term “played golf”, because I sure made it look like work.

If you take Interstate 10 west from San Antonio for roughly 40 miles or so you will arrive in Comfort, Texas.  Yes, that’s the name of the quaint village nestled in the beginning rising mounds of the Texas Hill Country.  Comfort is small and mostly known for its antique shops.  Just east of Comfort about 10 miles toward San Antonio is a wide spot in the road, barely more than a street sign, named Welfare.  I mention Welfare only to make this point:  If you are going west from San Antonio you have to go through Welfare to get to Comfort.  Sorry, but I had to enlighten you with that bit of unnecessary information that I find humorous. Comfort is also home to The Buckhorn, a pleasant par 71 municipal course laid out among the rolling hills of Central Texas.

My first round of golf in years would be at The Buckhorn with my brother-in-law, Jim, and my son-in-law Chris. Two of the finest men I know, and I am blessed to have them in my life. Jim introduced me to golf, and for that I owe him huge, although that debt is offset by the fact that he is a Dallas Cowboys fan.  I let the latter slide for the enjoyment of his company. Chris caught the heart of my daughter and is holding it for ransom, provided she spends the rest of her life trying to get it back.  

It took me about a hole and a half to get my nerves to settle down.  After the first two holes, both par fours, I was sitting on 14 strokes. Did I mention golf can be humbling? The rest of the front nine I don’t quite remember, save for the 7^th, a 202 yard par 3.  I had asked the other two guys about a friendly wager, that the farthest drive from the pin at the last par 3 on the front nine buy the drinks at the turn, a challenge they both agreed to.  Imagine my surprise when I actually shot par on the hole!  The seventh is a fairly straight hole with a medium sized kidney-bean shaped green with a sand trap just off the right side.  My drive ended up on the skirt of the sand trap, and I chipped my second to within a foot or so of the cup. Chris and Jim both told me to pick up my ball, that it was a “gimme”, but I decided to play my way off the green and my putt dropped in like I knew what I was trying to do.

The seventh hole was definitely the bright spot of my round of golf, but the camaraderie with two great guys was what golf is really about.

The Buckhorn’s 16^th  hole is a straight par 5, 543 yards long, and slightly downhill. Chris and I both shot the maximum strokes allowable and took scores of ten while Jim shot an impressive (at least in that threesome) eight.  Avid duffers will tell you that the golf slang term for a score of 8 is a “snowman” because of the way the number looks.  So on the next hole, 17, Jim had the tee-off honors for winning the previous hole.  So “Honors To the Snowman” was the catch phrase for the rest of the golf outing.  None of the three of us are what could really be called good golfers, but we try.

Both Chris and Jim shot scores around 100, while I came in with a modest 120, but, given the fact that I hadn’t played in over a decade I won’t complain.  Did I mention that golf is humbling?  I have often heard that the goal in playing golf is to shoot a score matching your age.  If that’s true then I will be hell on wheels when I’m 106.

This coming Saturday I will do something again that I haven't done in eleven years; I will play golf.  The reason it's been 11 years since I last played?  Did I become disillusioned with The Grand Old Game and stop out of frustration, anger, and resentment?  No.  I had no illusions of grandeur as to my abilities on the links.  Somehow life took over and pulled me away from golf. I just became too busy with raising a family and being a husband to my Wife.

My history with golf is actually quite short.  Considering my age ( I'm scheduled to turn 52 this August, unless my maker informs me otherwise ), and the fact that I didn't even take up the game until I was 30, I've probably actually played somewhere around twenty total rounds. I was introduced to the game by my brother-in-law, Jim, who coincidentally, is also playing on Saturday.  Jim kept after me for years to take up golf but I always turned him down until one time in 1990 when I told him I would give it a try.  So I rented a set of clubs from the local pro shop on the municipal course and, sure enough, after that first round I was hooked.

The clubs I will use for saturday's round are still the only set I have ever owned, which I bought used for $50.  In that hodge-podge collection of golf sticks is my 3 wood, a Spalding Top-Flite with the name Paul Runyan emblazoned on the side of the club head.  I must admit that until a Google search about an hour ago I had no idea who Paul Runyan was. I'm glad I did the search.

Paul Runyan was a golfer known by the nickname "Little Poison".  He got that moniker because his short game was his strong suit, and also because he was not a man of great physical stature, standing 5' 7" tall and weighing about 125 pounds soaking wet.

Runyan was born July 12, 1908 in Hot Springs Arkansas. He died on March 17, 2002.  He was still giving golf lessons when he died at age 93.

Between 1930 and 1941, Runyan won 29 times on the PGA tour. He had nine victories in 1933 alone, six more in 1934, and captured the money title the very first year that such records were kept with total winnings of $6,767.  He won the U.S. PGA Seniors in 1961 and 1962. In 1951 he was one shot from the lead at the U.S. Open at Oakland Hills after 3 rounds before finishing tied for 6th place. During the 1938 PGA, he was 24 under par for the 196 holes he played, including 64 consecutive holes at par or under.

According to Runyan's profile at the World Golf Hall of Fame in St. Augustine, Florida, he could produce little power off the tee, with an average drive of barely 230 yards in tournaments where they were measured, but he was deadly straight and tremendously accurate with his fairway woods and reliable with the irons. The profile quotes Runyan as saying "Through necessity, I began my lifelong devotion to the short game"...."Searching for shortcuts that would somehow let me compete, and hopefully excel, in a world of stronger players"..."I've taken some pleasure out of being the little guy who has beaten the big fellows".  Little Poison indeed.

That last quote from Runyan reminds me of something I heard in church once regarding the David and Goliath battle- King Saul saw Goliath as being too big to kill.  David saw Goliath as being too big to miss.
 

“Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there's time, the Bastard Time”- John Steinbeck.

Baseball is back.  The 2012 season of Major League Baseball has begun. There is, with baseball, more so I believe, than any of the other major team sports, a certain type of romance. Not a “boy meets girl type of romance”, but more of a “fan reunites with favorite team” kind of affair. This affair is glorious.  There is no clandestine rendezvous in shadowy nooks, stealing glances, or slight touches of lingering skin while hoping no one sees.  This affair is as it should be, right out in the open for the world, and hopefully, the World Series, to behold.   

As the season starts, the last few teams will begin play tonight, among them, my favorite team, the Houston Astros.  That’s right; the Houston Astros are my favorite MLB team.  I am proud to say that.  They have been for as far back as I care to remember.  I know; the Astros suck.  Out loud.  Listen close, and you’ll probably be able to hear a slight slurping sound emanating from somewhere around the general area of Minute Maid Park.

The Astros have not always been bad.  As recently as 2005 they were in the World Series.  I know; I find it hard to believe when I take the time to think about it myself.

I haven’t checked the record books, but I think at least 1 of Nolan Ryan’s no-hitters came as an Astro, if memory serves me correctly.

This new season holds no romance for me though, as it is fraught with a combination of futile effort and impending doom.  You see, the Astros are a bad team, but we diehard fans still love them.  They are not the belle of the ball, heck; they would need a major makeover to become as attractive as one of the ugly step sisters. However, here’s the rub; we Houston fans have earned the right to lovingly refer to our team as the Dis-Astros, or the Cat-Astros, or the it-looks-like-we’re-going to-finish-lastros, but that will not make this season any more bearable.

Bud Selig, in his infinite ineptitude, has pulled enough of the levers and pushed enough of the buttons on his big baseball machine to convince the new owners of the Houston team to jump to the American League in 2013, thereby making the Astros lame ducks for this season.

As if it’s not bad enough that Houston is struggling (they will be very fortunate to win 60 games this year) they are playing out the string of this season’s games.  In short, after Houston’s first game of the season tonight against the Colorado Rockies their magic number will be 161.

I dread the Astros upcoming move to the American League for two reasons: 1) I loathe the designated hitter rule.  The DH is by far the most ridiculous rule in all of sports, in my opinion. Players should all hit the ball and field the ball, not just specialists. 2) I do, or did, have a second favorite team; the Texas Rangers.  I have considered them my “AL” team for the past few years now.  Not only are the Astros moving to the AL, but to the same division as the Rangers.  So who will I root for when they play each other?  The Houston Astros, of course. My allegiance will not change because of a bookkeeping classification.

In short, if it’s possible at this point, this baseball season is like the few seasons of the NFL between the years that the Oilers left Houston and the Texans moved in.  For those three years I had no team to call “mine”.  I was a man without a team.

The Steinbeck quote to begin this piece references time as a villain. So this year, unless the Astros make the playoffs, and no one with sufficient gray matter expects them to, all Houston will be doing is marking time. Everything the Houston Astros do, or will do, is pointless, and this will, most certainly, be my season of discontent.