PLAYING FOR THEIR LIVES

When I was a child, my mother used to tell me “If you don’t have anything good to say to someone, don’t say anything at all.” Then she added, “…while they are in the area.” A few of my gentlemen associates and I, when we are together on the golf course, will occasionally miss hit the ball sending it errant.

On those occasions I’ve come to expect an occasional expletive. But as associates go, there is always someone who appears to be an otherwise “calm gentleman” that takes it a bit further. He will use the occasion to reak pompous arrogance, a seemingly delirium of dismay. He will air a wild vulgar tirade which I’ve dubbed the disease of “Potty mouth.” You’d think he was playing for his life.

Over the years I’ve come to understand that what mom was trying to do was teach me to be civil, to educate me in the fine art of political correctness. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard bad words. Offending good taste, I’ve spoken them to others. Equally, after my first thirty years of life I’ve been called every name but a child of God. Because of it, I’ve grown a very thick skin.

The disease is not a problem for me per se; it is only when someone not an associate, a respected personal friend, girlfriend or Church member if you will, joins our group. That’s when my spider senses begin to tingle.

“HEY, A LADY IS PRESENT!” is invoked. There, I have declared the unwritten rule; the line that gentlemen don’t cross. But it is only met with defiance. Without question a clear and distinct wanton disregard for the newcomer replayed in a second exhibition, only this time showcased to be the pièce de résistance. Avoiding an altercation we journey on to the next hole accepting the fact that he’s an asshole.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed golfing with both genders. If in his highest professional manner the golf starter pairs the fairer sex with men, far be it from me to object, after all everybody has a right to play the game.

As thick skinned as I might be, I’ve found an aversion for embarrassment by a verdict of guilt by association, and cringe at the sight of my associate’s next wayward strike. Usually during these times I perceive the distastefulness of the Potty mouth disease. I am overcome by a desire to distance myself from the irreverence profanities of my associate. Call it chevalier, even a bit archaic, but we’re talking about the sex that bears our young.

And so we continue our game trying to stay positive. By the eighteen hole, if he’s kept the ball in the fairway, we’ve got little to complain about. We walk away from the game now knowing the countenance to avoid. We now have something to talk about, maybe even tell the grand kids, but it will be a long time before we play with the associate again. But what on earth would we tell the grand kids? Maybe only a riddle.

When does an associate become an asshole? Answer: When he leaves the area.