There's Nothing as Queer as Folk

The folks you meet. We were playing the other day in Picton and things were slow. I don't mean four and a quarter hours slow. I'm talking five hours and change slow. Anyway, there were a bunch of green fee players in front of us.

We first ran into a husband and wife who were obviously not really golfers. Not only were they hitting the ball everywhere, except perhaps backwards, but they had a motorized golfcart and were leaving it on the cartpath and wandering all over the place before remembering to reclaim it. When we caught them finally at the sixth tee I drove up and explained to the gentleman that he needn't keep his cart on the path, explaining how the ninety degree rule worked. I suggested that this might save them a lot of walking, and a lot of aggravation. I hate playing when it's cartpath only.

Anyway, the husband and wife happily received this advice and even suggested we play through; which I thought was pretty damned decent of them considering that they were really not that far behind the group in front. So, off we went, only to encounter another twosome--again a husband and wife--at the eighth tee. The husband was quick to let us know that he was an avid golfer, who "plays at least 150 rounds a year," and that he definitely would never be returning to our "Mickey Mouse" course. Though playing, in quite erratic fashion I might add, from our white tees, he said our course was too short--the inference being that it was too easy for him.

His wife, on the other hand, was quite a good player, and seemed very nice to boot. All I could think was, "you poor woman." We elected not to discuss the relative merits of our course any further. Though Peter said, as they walked away, that he certainly hoped they wouldn't be back. 

We met this pair again at the fourteenth tee and I couldn't resist enquiring a bit further as to why he felt our course was so "Mickey Mouse." I indicated that I had observed him spending most of the day in the rough, and that he didn't exactly seem to be "tearing it up." He advised us that he played out of a club in Phoenix that has a set of tees at 7400 yards. And he generally plays at 6800. Our white tees are about 6000 yards; but the course is tight, with fescue, and thick, healthy rough. It's not really a walk in the park. In fact, I've seen good players come here, look at the card, and figure they'd have an easy time of it, only to find they couldn't break 80. 

I told our new friend that he might try playing from the blues, where we were playing. I advised him that we were not in Phoenix now, and he would find that the 6300 yards from our blues would be every bit the test, lengthwise, that his home course was at 6800. He declined to do so and walked on, after missing another tee shot.

Oh well, you can't please everyone. And we later found out that our friends from Phoenix had originally been paired with the first couple we had encountered. They had decided to split up, making the slow play situation even worse. As my old Irish grandmother would say, "There's nothing as queer as folk."