Deconstructing Golf

I've never thought much about golf. I know it's very popular and considered to be a sport. I remember my father playing golf occasionally at the local no-Jews-allowed country club down the street, snuck in by his Catholic friend who was a member. And that Tiger Woods and others before and since his rise to fame make fortunes playing it. But I had no idea how odd a pastime it is until my husband and I vacationed at a golf resort two hours north of our home. 

Although neither of us play golf, we went for the peace and quiet, two swimming pools, great restaurant, and fabulous water views the place also offers, and to get away from our cat for a few days. (We hired a petsitter.) Our beautiful condo overlooked the resort's 18-hole golf course, providing us with a bird's-eye view of the proceedings, which went on almost non-stop from just after dawn until dusk.

People rode around in little carts, stopping every so often to get out, choose a golf club from a bag on the back of the cart, then walk onto the grass and hit a little ball into the air with the club. Returning to their carts they drove a few yards to where the ball had landed and got out and hit it again, until finally they got the ball into a little hole in the ground marked by a flagpole.

Everyone wore hats. Most of the men wore khaki pants and hit white golf balls while most of the women wore pink or red shorts and used brightly colored balls like magenta or yellow. 

Every time we glanced out the window of our condo, or sat on the balcony drinking coffee and reading the paper, people were doing it. Apparently some people play for as long as five or six hours, enough time to paint a small bathroom or attend an anti-Israel protest.

I have friends who love the game and I applaud them, but after what I saw last weekend I'm thinking that playing golf is sort of ridiculous.