Home on the Range (Golf Range that Is…)

My time at the range is initially spent in frustration. I get my token, put it in the ball machine and for the life of me can never seem to get the right size bucket. All of a sudden there’s balls going all over the place and I’m chasing them down like an idiot. You know, ducking backswings and the inevitable; having to look like a squeaking cheap bastard because one them rolled near someone else’s stash and when you go over to pick it up it looks like you’re stealing a ball. Obviously, a confrontation ensues and it turns into a friggin Seinfeld episode because you have to explain yourself. All of this over a range ball.

When I finally get to an open driving bay, I have a nervous breakdown trying to find the right tee…those big, stupid rubber tees! I have better luck finding a four leaf clover than finding one the right length. It’s like I either need Huggy Bear’s platform shoes or I’m driving from the mat. Well, I fixed their asses…I grabbed the longest one I could find, cut it to size and took it with me (I sure showed them).

Now as with any public place, there are a variety of people and a variety of stereotypes to go along with them. There’s the guy that dresses like he’s on tour – has the real nice expensive bag with all the fixins’ and exaggerates his nice swing so everybody sees him and oooh’s and aaah’s. There’s the guy that brings all of his clubs but only uses the driver. And then there’s the guy that should have a sock in his mouth because his cursing and swearing upsets everyone.

I also crack-up whenever I see people at the range who insist they are good, but slice so much they should be an Iron Chef. Sometimes you can hear them talking to themselves (in a looney bin kind of way). And once, I could of swore I heard “I’ll never make it in Q school.” It’s safe to say the only tour that guy will be making is the Culture Club re-union.

Now, as much as I would love to improve my game and be consistent with my irons and all that other jazz, I thoroughly enjoy driving balls at the ball retriever vehicle thingy. Especially when I’m in the company of a like-minded friend or fellow range neighbor. The fun really begins when the betting starts: “Five bucks if you hit the cart…$50 if you somehow hit the driver…” We all know that the cart is wrapped in golf ball armor and it is virtually impossible to pose any threat to the driver but, we still try (I know, we’re sadistic bastards). It should be noted that some behavioral psychiatrists believe that we have a natural morbid curiosity with seeing death, trauma/gore or just all around destruction. Since we are somewhat civil and haven’t been raised by wolves or apes, we tend to control that curiosity…or not.

Anyway, as my last ball careens toward the ball-retriever cart, I’m left wondering about the people who only know golf by what they see and do at the driving range. You know, those people who have never set foot on a golf course but still think the range is “fun.” Sometimes I envy them – their idea of golf is far less complicated than mine. It’s much easier to hit mindlessly at the range cart guy than aim for the pin. Hmmmm. do you think the MOFOBETE snack cart should have a giant target in it’s roof? Better yet…where’s the ranger’s cart?!?