During the sixties when I was young, golf or bridge provided an excellent avenue for effective social networking and upward mobility.
I chose bridge as I was given to understand that golf was only for the rich.
A few years later, my good, friendly neighbor golfer (of a tribe that is now almost extinct) told me golf has many poor players, but by then, I was neck deep in another quagmire of bridge.
I shunned the golf bug and preferred to be a poor player of bridge.
My neighbor, in his attempts to convert me, took me on a guided tour to the Golf club.
On our way, I met a dear friend of mine once rich and prosperous, looking disheveled in rags.
When I asked him whether he played trumps too early or too late while playing bridge, he narrated a long tale of woe, how he spent all his fortune on golf, but made little or no progress from his 100.
In the next lane, I met another exceptionally smart friend, who I thought was going places, looking like a broken man.
He lamented he took to golf, mainly to take a break from his busy work and ended up as a golf addict.
He said he had tried to get back to work to rid his mind off the game, but it was too late.
He fell between two stools and came a cropper.
I met another friend, who was one of the brightest in the university, looking like a nervous wreck.
I learned he took to golf and succeeded only in losing his marbles.
I felt vindicated, looked at my neighbor and almost said "I told you so.
" In the bargain, I converted a friend into an enemy.
Fortunately, my friend turned foe, a wise man except when playing golf, assured me such rapid transformation was par for the course.
Although I didn't make any worthwhile progress either in bridge or my upward mobility, I was happy.
I didn't lose much either in money or happiness except incurring the wrath of my wife on a few occasions.
My wife complained rarely, as she considered herself better off than many golf widows in her circle of friends.
During my trips abroad, I had met several members of Golfers Anonymous, but fortunately none connected with bridge.
I was drawn to golf much later when my grandson, taking first lessons, requested me to accompany him to steady his nerves.
The instructor started in right earnest, threw my grandson in the deep end of the pool, straightaway, and shouted, "Address the ball.
" He issued a command like a drill sergeant on a parade ground.
My grandson, keen as mustard, promptly said, "Hi, how you doing?" to the ball.
The coach lost his cool instantaneously.
"Before reporting for lessons, you should have learned the basic lingo of golf," he admonished my grandson, all of ten.
I gave a piece of my mind to the instructor and reminded him of the fat fee he charged for the lessons.
Watching my anger, he went on to explain to the young boy addressing a ball meant the stance, the position of the legs, grip and many other things.
I wondered how so much information could be packed in one single command.
He then asked his trainee to look down and hit hard to shoot the ball on its way up.
"Why should I look down when I want the ball to go up?" the baffled ten year old asked.
"Golf is a funny game.
You have to hit the bottom of the ball to make it go up and swing left to make the ball go right.
The one with the lowest score wins, and the winner buys the drinks.
" My grandson, a second-generation chip of the old block, regained his wits, looked at the small white, dimpled ball and wondered what the fuss was all about.
He asked, "What's the big deal to hit such a tiny ball? That seems to be no hard task at all?" The instructor thought he should not let a young lad steal a march on him, and he too broke into verse.
"This dimpled ball, seem it may small, Flies high, but causes many a downfall Swings, turns and weaves as it pleases And vanishes before your own eyes Never to be found even by the sharpest eyes.
On its path, hits trees, poles and other players And whatever it comes across.
Following its own fancies and whims Goes for an unruly dance, walk or swim.
With a mind of its own, goes its own way Wanders everywhere leaving the fairways.
With miles of grass to land, finds a patch of sand Often, breaks your heart and blows your mind Lands anywhere other than where you want To make you cheat, rave and rant.
Kisses dames, but misses cups and lips Drives famous men to make blunders And rends many marriages asunder.
" Impressed by his verse, I asked him about his course record.
He said he was the best qualified instructor in the club as he had never crossed 100 after playing the game for long.
My friendly neighborhood golfer tells me golf is played by most talented people, but I think it is played only by people mentally challenged.
The truth, as the popular saying goes, perhaps lies somewhere in between.
I now play in the comfort of my air-conditioned study, choosing the type of course I want, color of balls I like, without cheating, or making enemies, or incurring the displeasure of my wife.
I play a different kind of golf-virtual golf.
I lose often, but to no one except myself.
I am at peace with myself with no one to hate and my ego unscathed.
I am enjoying my weekends.
I chose bridge as I was given to understand that golf was only for the rich.
A few years later, my good, friendly neighbor golfer (of a tribe that is now almost extinct) told me golf has many poor players, but by then, I was neck deep in another quagmire of bridge.
I shunned the golf bug and preferred to be a poor player of bridge.
My neighbor, in his attempts to convert me, took me on a guided tour to the Golf club.
On our way, I met a dear friend of mine once rich and prosperous, looking disheveled in rags.
When I asked him whether he played trumps too early or too late while playing bridge, he narrated a long tale of woe, how he spent all his fortune on golf, but made little or no progress from his 100.
In the next lane, I met another exceptionally smart friend, who I thought was going places, looking like a broken man.
He lamented he took to golf, mainly to take a break from his busy work and ended up as a golf addict.
He said he had tried to get back to work to rid his mind off the game, but it was too late.
He fell between two stools and came a cropper.
I met another friend, who was one of the brightest in the university, looking like a nervous wreck.
I learned he took to golf and succeeded only in losing his marbles.
I felt vindicated, looked at my neighbor and almost said "I told you so.
" In the bargain, I converted a friend into an enemy.
Fortunately, my friend turned foe, a wise man except when playing golf, assured me such rapid transformation was par for the course.
Although I didn't make any worthwhile progress either in bridge or my upward mobility, I was happy.
I didn't lose much either in money or happiness except incurring the wrath of my wife on a few occasions.
My wife complained rarely, as she considered herself better off than many golf widows in her circle of friends.
During my trips abroad, I had met several members of Golfers Anonymous, but fortunately none connected with bridge.
I was drawn to golf much later when my grandson, taking first lessons, requested me to accompany him to steady his nerves.
The instructor started in right earnest, threw my grandson in the deep end of the pool, straightaway, and shouted, "Address the ball.
" He issued a command like a drill sergeant on a parade ground.
My grandson, keen as mustard, promptly said, "Hi, how you doing?" to the ball.
The coach lost his cool instantaneously.
"Before reporting for lessons, you should have learned the basic lingo of golf," he admonished my grandson, all of ten.
I gave a piece of my mind to the instructor and reminded him of the fat fee he charged for the lessons.
Watching my anger, he went on to explain to the young boy addressing a ball meant the stance, the position of the legs, grip and many other things.
I wondered how so much information could be packed in one single command.
He then asked his trainee to look down and hit hard to shoot the ball on its way up.
"Why should I look down when I want the ball to go up?" the baffled ten year old asked.
"Golf is a funny game.
You have to hit the bottom of the ball to make it go up and swing left to make the ball go right.
The one with the lowest score wins, and the winner buys the drinks.
" My grandson, a second-generation chip of the old block, regained his wits, looked at the small white, dimpled ball and wondered what the fuss was all about.
He asked, "What's the big deal to hit such a tiny ball? That seems to be no hard task at all?" The instructor thought he should not let a young lad steal a march on him, and he too broke into verse.
"This dimpled ball, seem it may small, Flies high, but causes many a downfall Swings, turns and weaves as it pleases And vanishes before your own eyes Never to be found even by the sharpest eyes.
On its path, hits trees, poles and other players And whatever it comes across.
Following its own fancies and whims Goes for an unruly dance, walk or swim.
With a mind of its own, goes its own way Wanders everywhere leaving the fairways.
With miles of grass to land, finds a patch of sand Often, breaks your heart and blows your mind Lands anywhere other than where you want To make you cheat, rave and rant.
Kisses dames, but misses cups and lips Drives famous men to make blunders And rends many marriages asunder.
" Impressed by his verse, I asked him about his course record.
He said he was the best qualified instructor in the club as he had never crossed 100 after playing the game for long.
My friendly neighborhood golfer tells me golf is played by most talented people, but I think it is played only by people mentally challenged.
The truth, as the popular saying goes, perhaps lies somewhere in between.
I now play in the comfort of my air-conditioned study, choosing the type of course I want, color of balls I like, without cheating, or making enemies, or incurring the displeasure of my wife.
I play a different kind of golf-virtual golf.
I lose often, but to no one except myself.
I am at peace with myself with no one to hate and my ego unscathed.
I am enjoying my weekends.