Life of Hardin Vol. III, No. 4
Sub-Par
I've never been too much of a golfer. Now I know, I played on the team in High School, but to say that you've got to define "on the team" very loosely. I never made a tournament, and everybody who tried out got to keep playing for free at the Winfield Dunn Pickwick State Park Golf Course in the hopes that someone might suddenly become a prodigy. I never did. But I played lots of free golf. Of course, since I never got any better, I spent plenty of time in the woods and forest glades and ponds searching for my errant shots. I lost so many balls that at the beginning of a round I often grabbed a few from the driving range in case I ran out.
Thirteen years later, I have suddenly become a prodigy. I have found the (insert famous golfer's name here) within me. And all I had to do was come to Paraguay to do it.
Enoch took me to the course at his yacht club one day last week. I know, you expect a Paraguayan golf course to look similar to the putting green your dad mowed in your backyard one summer day, complete with an oval hole, an old pvc pipe and a dishtowel stolen from your mother's kitchen for a flag, and patches of skinned ground to putt across. But you would be surprised. This was not like that at all. It was nice. Well, about as nice as you get here. Like so many things Paraguayan, it was just aaalllmmoosst there. It was complete with driving range and caddies you could hire to carry your bags. We refrained from hiring any, Enoch being afraid he might draw the drunk one as usual who believes he knows more about golf that (insert famous golfer's name here). Enoch gave me a couple of Titleist balls and we were off.
Along about the second hole I looked for my ball, which just oh-so-barely missed the fairway, and ran smack into a stallion grazing under the trees. A Paraguayan stallion, with a splotchy coat and a slightly swayed back, but a stallion none the less. He eyed me a second, wondering why I had trod on his meal, and went back to lunch. Along about the fourth hole I stepped up to the tee box and noticed some water off to my right.
"This run very far?" I asked Enoch.
"You're not going to hit it in there," he said.
So I teed off, and he was right. I hit a lovely shot almost 250 yards out and almost in the fairway. As we passed the water I noticed something at the edge. "What is that? It that an . . . alligator?"
It was, in fact, an alligator. No more than 3 feet long, but an alligator none the less with no fence between us. Only a sign that read "!Cuidado! Yacare" which is guarani for "Get to close and get something bit off by a gator." I noticed another and then another, some in the water, some merely wading. Then I saw a guarani boy wading in with them, searching the water for golf balls to re-sell. I left them to their devices and traveled on, glad for once to have avoided a water hazard.
Along about the seventh hole we passed another pair of Paraguayan stallions grazing between the tee boxes. Lady Godiva may have scoffed at riding bareback on one of those animals' rough hides, but they had a wonderful demeanor about them and I thought it very gracious of them to allow us the use of their pasture for a morning. There was something to be desired, however, in the demeanor of the little groundskeeper man who also patrolled that particular hole on a "Grapes of Wrath" era miniature tractor stricken with tuberculosis. It coughed accordingly as he circled behind us. Enoch jabbed the ground with a tee about the time the man revved his engine. We turned and saw him aim full speed at the horses. It was a magnificent sight as they threw their heads up, manes flying in the wind, and ran from him for a full twenty feet before they stopped again to graze. This didn't suit the groundskeeper at all. He revved again and aimed at their rear quarters. They horses seemed annoyed at this second inconvenience, or it is possible they were a bit out of breath, but they obliged by trotting away. Satisfied, the little man putted away up a hill, and the horses stopped in the middle of the fairway, 15 yards in front of our tee box.
Enoch stepped up for his shot.
"You gonna hit now?" I asked.
"I'll make it over them."
He didn't. I've never seen a golf ball fly so low without bouncing. It missed the horse's lowered head by inches. The horse raised his head, looked at us, sighed, and went back to eating. Shaken, I stepped up to tee off, aimed squarely at the same horse's head, and sailed a beautiful shot away off that almost landed in the fairway of the hole we'd just played.
We finished the round without further incident, and I'm proud to say that on this Paraguayan golf course-slash-petting zoo I played the best round of golf of my life. Who knows what my score was, but before we got in the car I proudly returned BOTH of Enoch's Titleist to him, having lost neither one.
Sub-Par
I've never been too much of a golfer. Now I know, I played on the team in High School, but to say that you've got to define "on the team" very loosely. I never made a tournament, and everybody who tried out got to keep playing for free at the Winfield Dunn Pickwick State Park Golf Course in the hopes that someone might suddenly become a prodigy. I never did. But I played lots of free golf. Of course, since I never got any better, I spent plenty of time in the woods and forest glades and ponds searching for my errant shots. I lost so many balls that at the beginning of a round I often grabbed a few from the driving range in case I ran out.
Thirteen years later, I have suddenly become a prodigy. I have found the (insert famous golfer's name here) within me. And all I had to do was come to Paraguay to do it.
Enoch took me to the course at his yacht club one day last week. I know, you expect a Paraguayan golf course to look similar to the putting green your dad mowed in your backyard one summer day, complete with an oval hole, an old pvc pipe and a dishtowel stolen from your mother's kitchen for a flag, and patches of skinned ground to putt across. But you would be surprised. This was not like that at all. It was nice. Well, about as nice as you get here. Like so many things Paraguayan, it was just aaalllmmoosst there. It was complete with driving range and caddies you could hire to carry your bags. We refrained from hiring any, Enoch being afraid he might draw the drunk one as usual who believes he knows more about golf that (insert famous golfer's name here). Enoch gave me a couple of Titleist balls and we were off.
Along about the second hole I looked for my ball, which just oh-so-barely missed the fairway, and ran smack into a stallion grazing under the trees. A Paraguayan stallion, with a splotchy coat and a slightly swayed back, but a stallion none the less. He eyed me a second, wondering why I had trod on his meal, and went back to lunch. Along about the fourth hole I stepped up to the tee box and noticed some water off to my right.
"This run very far?" I asked Enoch.
"You're not going to hit it in there," he said.
So I teed off, and he was right. I hit a lovely shot almost 250 yards out and almost in the fairway. As we passed the water I noticed something at the edge. "What is that? It that an . . . alligator?"
It was, in fact, an alligator. No more than 3 feet long, but an alligator none the less with no fence between us. Only a sign that read "!Cuidado! Yacare" which is guarani for "Get to close and get something bit off by a gator." I noticed another and then another, some in the water, some merely wading. Then I saw a guarani boy wading in with them, searching the water for golf balls to re-sell. I left them to their devices and traveled on, glad for once to have avoided a water hazard.
Along about the seventh hole we passed another pair of Paraguayan stallions grazing between the tee boxes. Lady Godiva may have scoffed at riding bareback on one of those animals' rough hides, but they had a wonderful demeanor about them and I thought it very gracious of them to allow us the use of their pasture for a morning. There was something to be desired, however, in the demeanor of the little groundskeeper man who also patrolled that particular hole on a "Grapes of Wrath" era miniature tractor stricken with tuberculosis. It coughed accordingly as he circled behind us. Enoch jabbed the ground with a tee about the time the man revved his engine. We turned and saw him aim full speed at the horses. It was a magnificent sight as they threw their heads up, manes flying in the wind, and ran from him for a full twenty feet before they stopped again to graze. This didn't suit the groundskeeper at all. He revved again and aimed at their rear quarters. They horses seemed annoyed at this second inconvenience, or it is possible they were a bit out of breath, but they obliged by trotting away. Satisfied, the little man putted away up a hill, and the horses stopped in the middle of the fairway, 15 yards in front of our tee box.
Enoch stepped up for his shot.
"You gonna hit now?" I asked.
"I'll make it over them."
He didn't. I've never seen a golf ball fly so low without bouncing. It missed the horse's lowered head by inches. The horse raised his head, looked at us, sighed, and went back to eating. Shaken, I stepped up to tee off, aimed squarely at the same horse's head, and sailed a beautiful shot away off that almost landed in the fairway of the hole we'd just played.
We finished the round without further incident, and I'm proud to say that on this Paraguayan golf course-slash-petting zoo I played the best round of golf of my life. Who knows what my score was, but before we got in the car I proudly returned BOTH of Enoch's Titleist to him, having lost neither one.
posted by Josh Hardin | 8/31/2006 06:06:00 PM
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