Golf Elbow

I went to the driving range yesterday. It was a very pleasant early morning bucket o' balls, let me tell you. The wind was soft. The sun was warm. I was hungover, but it didn't matter. It was the beginning of the nicest day in DC this spring.

Now I am not what you would call a "golfer." I took summertime lessons at my grandfather's country club when I was little, but that was many years ago. I was decent at the time, but I didn't give it my all. You see, I always hated the pretension of "The Club." Little people with plaid pants and flipped collars. Yuk. Give me an ice cream cone, that's what I'd be saying. A firecracker, perhaps? Any sort of sweet treat would do.

But I did love diving for golf balls in the lake. It was far more entertaining than the golfing itself. You could paddle boat over to the cove, dive in the shallow water and see who among you could snatch the most balls. And then you'd race back for another ice cream cone. Oh, wait. That might have been just me. In any case, golfing was never "my thing."

Until recently.

I've learned that everything in life is exactly what you make of it. I'm not going to let some future investment banker with a flipped collar tell me that golfing is pretentious. Not anymore!

Golfing is fun for me now. And I'm excited to get better at it. I've already mastered the sand wedge, so there's really not too much else I need to learn. No doubt, by the end of summer, I'll be on a tour. Augusta National? Piece of cake.

Now if I could just get rid of this golf elbow. [Side note: I looked it up. It's like tennis elbow, but it's called "golf elbow" because you get it after you've "golfed." Tricky.] Once I'm healed, it's back to the range. Watch out Tiger Woods. Watch out little Asian prodigy whose name I can't remember. Here I come.