The evil that is golf

At first glance, golf seems like an easy and relaxing sport. But a closer look rips off golf's cloak of happy fun fun to reveal a sinister, sadistic game possibly invented by Genghis Khan to torture his enemies.\nI delved into the diabolical world of golf last week when my father signed me up for a lesson so he would have someone to play with after he retires. I had never even been on a golf course before. (Except for the time I escaped from a pack of hungry wolves that weren't wearing collared shirts, and thus not allowed on the course.)\nThe only golfing experience I have is in magical Putt-Putt land where windmills block shots and hippos eat neon-colored golf balls right before they pass them out for a hole-in-one. I didn't see either one of those on the golf course. It saddened me. It still does. Poor windmills and hippos stuck forever in places like magical Putt-Putt land and the Netherlands.\nAnyway, I arrived on time for my golf lesson only to find out my instructor was the one and only Mr. Rogers. He said his name was something else, but I knew who he actually was. Who else would wear an earth-toned vest and a smile at eight o'clock in the morning? I tried to confirm my belief, but to no avail.\n"I know you want to sing 'Won't You Be My Neighbor?' to me."\n"Not really."\n"C'mon, Mr. Rogers, if you're on the run from the police, I won't tell anybody. Promise."\n"For the last time, I'm not Mr. Rogers. Isn't he dead, anyway?"\n"I don't know. Are you?"\nHe finally relented and let me call him Mr. R because his so-called "real" name started with an R, too. I agreed, not wanting to ruin his cover as a mild-mannered golf instructor. But I still wish I could have gotten his autograph.\nThe first part of the lesson was incredibly boring. I had to listen to him lecture on proper form for 15 minutes while I held a golf club with a ball on the ground a mere five feet away from me. The entire time I kept glancing at the ball and then at my club and then at the ball and then back at my club, wishing Mr. R would just let me hit it.\nTen minutes into the lecture, the ball started taunting me with verbal assaults, questioning my manhood. I'm not going to take that from a person, much less a golf ball. But Mr. R was still droning on about hand placement on the club. I had to curb my desire for five more fun-filled minutes of, "You don't have the balls to hit me. Ha ha." That golf ball was a real funny guy.\nFinally, Mr. R stopped talking and let me approach the ball.\n"You gonna die Mr. Ball," I muttered under my breath.\nI could see the fear dripping off Mr. Ball as I swung my club in gleeful anticipation of his impending doom. But Mr. R grabbed the club before I could swing forward.\n"That's not the way you're supposed to swing the club, Mr. Grace."\n"I knew that. My arm just slipped."\n"You don't got no balls. You don't got no balls," whispered Mr. Ball.\n"Your turn is soon coming," I whispered back to the ball.\n"What did you say, Mr. Grace," Mr. R chimed in.\n"Nothing. Just reminding myself of proper form."\nSo, I gently lifted the club behind my back again, looked to Mr. R for approval, and with the nod of his head swung the bat with full force.\nIt would have been a devastating blow had it not went about a foot over Mr. Ball's head.\n"I think we better finish this lesson without the ball," Mr. R said as he put the ball back in the bucket. There, Mr. Ball mocked me the throughout the rest of the lectures and shadow swings.\nI hate golf.