by Dave Ellis

Up in the red mountains there is a magical place where the groundhogs run free like the wind. I know that’s a strange statement to make. It sounds like the start of a novel, perhaps titled “Groundhogland II, Rise of the Tunnelers.”

But it’s not just the awesome start of an action/thriller novel, it is actually a real place not too far from our valley. It is the Cedar Ridge Golf Course in Cedar City, Utah, where I was roped into playing a round during the big family reunion.

There was a twelve year span between this attempt at golf and my last. But luckily my skills didn’t change, I still stink at golf.

First, a little golf history. Golf, or ‘Lawn Hockey’ as they call it in Canada (‘Le Hocké de Lawne’ in Quebec) was first played in Scotland in 1456. This was the first and only sport that is slow enough to be played in a skirt. I don’t know much else about the history except that they have traditional (read: funny) names for everything.

If you hit the ball in on the expected amount of strokes it’s called par. One stroke under par is a birdie, two under is an eagle, three under you are a cheater.
Actually it’s called ‘albatross’ and I am not making that up. Everything above par is a bogey listed as single, double or family size.

Golf also has names for all the ways you can mess up when hitting the ball. (I’m not making these up - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golf#Poor_shots). There’s the chili dip, chunk, shank and foot wedge. My personal favorites are Wormburner, Groundhog Killer or Sally Gunnell. By the way, these terms all mean the same thing. I don’t know who Sally Gunnell is but she sure must have hated groundhogs.

Let me paint a picture of how I play golf to show you why it’s not my favorite sport. I tee up at the women’s marker (it’s closer) and then point to the flag marker with my club like Babe Ruth and yell “play ball.”

I then apologize to the Course Marshall for yelling anything but ‘Fore!’ and proceed to swing at the ball. I miss of course and pretend it was a practice swing. I then wait for the laughter to subside and take a real swing.

The club connects with the ball and sends it in a corkscrew pattern about a foot off of the ground for 50 feet. I step over the seven groundhogs I’ve knocked out and hit the ball with an iron.

Which iron do I use? It really doesn’t matter. At this point I could use a clothes iron and get the same result. I really can’t hit the ball. I think the only reason these clubs are numbered is so you know when your kids lose one of the set.

My only saving grace is that I sometimes sink a putt. This made me a hero of our four person team or ‘scramble’ as they are called. Most scrambles I’ve been involved with have ham and melted cheese in them. A golf scramble is basically a way for good players to play with bad players and still win.

It’s kind of like deep frying vegetables: good + bad = delicious. But we were delicious! We came in second but that wasn’t enough to win the candy bar…long story. Actually, it’s not; you win a candy bar if you come in first.

I expect next family reunion I’ll be better because frankly I can’t get worse. If I can just combine my hook and slice into a straight shot maybe I’ll get an albatross before I katizel the oyster. OK, that last phrase I made up. But it sounded golfy, no?