ouray

ouray
It's me doing a little posing while taking a break at the Ouray, Colorado Jeep Jamboree in 1995.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Contemplating Golf in a Very Deserted Cincy Airport

As I write this I am sitting in the Cincinnati airport -- actually in Kentucky -- cooling my heels for 3 hours waiting on a connecting flight to Nashville. Nissan is flying me to its media launch of the 2013 Altima.

I have never seen a major airport so deserted. It's ; I am sitting in a little alcove off of Concourse B and I feel like the sole survivor of a nuclear holocaust. I can see the employees of a couple of the shops standing out in the concourse -- no doubt hoping another survivor will stumble by -- but that's about it. Every once in a while a member of the cleaning crew will come by pushing a cart loaded with cleaning stuff in search of someone to clean up after.

I am not exaggerating when I write that it has been at least 2 or 3 minutes since I last saw a fellow traveler walk by. Every once in a while an airport or airline employee wanders by, but even they are few and far between.

Is it a little eerie?  Why, yes it is.

It is in this somewhat surreal setting that I will wrap up my 3-day experiences toting a score standard from hole to hole at the BMW Charity Pro-Am Golf Tournament.

Even for someone who makes his living transforming thoughts into words, I am hard pressed to sum up my unbridled joy at walking off the 18th green for the last time on Saturday.

Three days of watching golf, playing golf or even thinking about golf is more than anyone should have to suffer.

Here's what playing a hole of golf sounds like -- at least when I played:

Plink  "Dammit; shanked it. Did anyone see where it went? Mother f…. that's another lost ball.

Plink  "Aw jeez; it's in the trees! Did anyone see it come out? Crap; another lost ball."

Thud  "Nuts; hit behind it. I could have thrown it farther than that. At least I can see it. Anyone see the beer cart?"

Dink  "Topped the son of a…  That'll put a smile in it. I don't think I brought enough balls. Somebody please find the beer cart!"

Plink  "Thank, God; on the green in five. What's the par on this hole? Please tell me it's 7 or 8. Three! WTF! Where's that damn beer cart?"

Whoop whoop whoop whoop  "Yep, I can still throw a nine iron farther than I can hit a ball with it. I'm going to the clubhouse for a beer."

Yep, I could go the rest of my life without setting foot on another golf course.

I worked with the same walking scorer all three days. We tallied it up and determined that it took 41 holes before we saw anyone sink a putt longer than 4 feet. We may have seen another three or four putts of more than 4 feet made on the remaining 13 holes. It was abysmal.

There were plenty of pros at 15, 16 and 17 under by the third day of play, but we hadn't been with any of them. One of the pros in my foursome on the last day finished at 4 over par. There are beach volleyball players who don't spend as much time in the sand as he did.

Suddenly I feel like, if I properly applied myself, I could play on the PGA tour. I like sand.

Nah, it's still golf.

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