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Golf is the only time it’s socially acceptable to be seen driving an electric car. Any sport that not only involves drinking, but encourages it throughout the duration of the game, is a game for me. Plus, as a business major in undergrad, I didn’t really have a chance but learn to love the game. No one ever closed out a multi-billion-dollar deal playing croquet, after all.
The sad truth I’ve finally come to accept, though, is that I suck at golf. I wasn’t born with a silver putter in my hand like Phil Mickelson. I practiced and tried to get better, but I still sucked. It’s impossible for me to get through the first few holes without losing several sleeves, and that’s a problem. Plus, the “real walk of shame” is when you drive far enough you can walk to it and not even have to drive the cart. In defense of my shitty golf game, I at least know the reason I suck: I’m Italian.
Yeah, my genetics have failed me. At first that surprised me because notorious golfer Tiger Woods and former Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi both seem to have the same interests: booze, women and debauchery. I have fantastic cooking, wine, art and the power of the Roman Empire in my DNA, but not golf. Maybe if I was Scottish and heralded from the land of Sean Connery, haggis and bagpipes, I’d fare better. After all, they invented the game.
Over the years I’ve used plenty of sad excuses for how bad my golf game was. The excuses ranged from simple like “oh I hurt my back lifting at the gym yesterday” to the extreme like “oh I hurt my back trying to jump off a roof to impress a group of chicks yesterday.” Somehow my “extreme” excuses always seemed more believable for me than my tame ones. This time I am 100% convinced my lack of talent for the sport is in my Italian blood. What exactly is it that makes Italians suck at golf? I’ll tell you.
Italian’s don’t have the temperament for golf. It is literally science. Sure it’s all fine and dandy at first, but by hole four I’m five over par and my Italian temper kicks in. Before you know it I’m about to have a Tony Soprano style meltdown. By hole 18, I’m sure my Italian ancestors are looking down and laughing at my pathetic attempts to get out of the sand trap without throwing my club like an Olympic javelin.
It’s kind of like the movie Happy Gilmore, but a lot more aggravating and with a Brooklyn style accent. Remember the scene where Adam Sandler threatens the ball? Imagine that, but instead of yelling at it I angrily whispered to the ball to go “sleep with the fishes.” Ironically, the ball landed in the fish filled water hazard immediately after that with my next swing.
My ancestors traded in the greens of a golf course for that liberal excuse for a sport soccer, but at least we’re good at it. Give us an inflated ball and a few nets and we’ll win four World Cups (the second best cup in sports after the Stanley Cup, of course). Maybe you can say we’re good at auto racing, as long as we can bring a Ferrari to a Nascar event. We’d pass any member of the Earnhardts and do it with Mario Batali in our passenger seat while cooking a full course pasta dinner.
Is my golf career over? Absolutely not. The only thing over is the hopes I’ll get better. With that my culture based excuse will age like a fine wine. But hey, there’s a reason the Romans used the Coliseum for gladiator battles instead of a golf course, am I right?
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