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There
is nowhere to go and nothing to do. My wife suggested we take a walk,
but I don't walk anywhere unless I have a golf club in my hand and its
cart path only. My kids have a restraining order on us and won't let
us come within 200 yards of the grandchildren. And we can no longer eat
out, but when we tried to cook at home, there were cobwebs in the oven.
The network
channels are inundated with coverage of the virus. The golf channel has
been showing reruns of old tournaments, which are almost as riveting as
watching my brother-in-law's video of his family camping trip to
Yellowstone
Park
. And my wife is so desperate for something to do she is even
considering sex, and maybe even with me.
Paranoia is
off the tracks. Before the shutdown, we were having dinner at a local
bar. I let out a loud sneeze and everyone at the surrounding tables
started yelling "check please." My stock portfolio is
plummeting and most of our cash is currently invested in toilet paper. I
am washing my hands 137 times a day. I don't touch anyone. I don't
even touch myself. I have been using tongs to go to the bathroom. This
has to stop.
Our society
and economy have been crippled by a microscopic virus. Scientists have
not yet determined the exact origin but have narrowed it down to a
Chinese fish market or Rosie O'Donnell's bathtub. And no one is sure
how to prevent or cure it. In the past, the ways to prevent contracting
a contagious disease were simple: don't eat in restaurants with a cat
on the menu and don't date my college roommate's sister.
I don't
consider myself to be in the high-risk category. I have been building up
my immune system by eating one meal per day at MacDonald's for the
last 25 years. Germs just slide through me. My only pre-existing
condition is an inability to launch a golf ball further than 180 yards.
And, according to the CDC, symptoms of the coronavirus are sweats,
dizziness, and trouble breathing, which I experience whenever I am
standing over a 3-foot putt. I can handle it.
So, I
proposed to my regular foursome the idea of escaping from our
self-imposed Stalag 17 and venturing outside for a round of golf.
Everyone recognized the danger and severity of the situation. But when
faced with the decision to remain sequestered with our wives or to risk
contracting a deadly virus, it was a no-brainer. Every man opted to play
golf.
Our foursome
does not pose a medical risk to mankind. My friend, George is
virus-free. Social distancing has not been a problem for him. Other than
us, he doesn't have any friends. Bob, my neighbor is a urologist who
has been working from home for several weeks. He has developed a way to
do remote prostate exams by having patients sit on their cell phones.
And our other partner, Jerry tested himself with a kit he bought online.
However, he thinks he may have gotten the wrong kit. It showed no traces
of the virus but indicated that he was pregnant with twins.
The federal
government has established guidelines for social engagement. For
example, you must stay at least 6 feet apart and no more than 10 people
are allowed at a gathering, which means Patrick Reed's fan club can
still meet. In addition, our foursome drafted our own specific set of
rules for Pandemic Golf.
Rules of
Play:
Hazmat suits
are permitted. As an alternative, one can wear a college mascot costume
or big bunny pajamas.
Masks are
not permitted, because we would look more like stagecoach robbers than a
foursome.
Leave the
flag in. And to avoid retrieving balls from the hole, any putt shorter
than Lebron James is good.
Ride in
separate golf carts and don't come closer to another player than
a fully extended ball retriever.
Don't
touch another player's balls. This is always good advice.
No high
fives. Fortunately, we seldom have a reason.
No petting
the geese or the cart girl.
Don't use
the spot-a-pot. More disease in there than in all of
Wuhan
China
.
No excuses.
Slicing or hooking are not side effects of the coronavirus.
Make an
online bank transfer to pay off your bets for the day.
Straddle the
sprinkler on the 18th hole before getting into the car.
These rules
and restrictions adequately protected us from contamination.
Unfortunately, there is no vaccine for bad golf. I had trouble gripping
the club with oven mittens, but it was an enjoyable afternoon which
ended way too soon. There were no handshakes on the 18th green, no beers
at the bar, and we drove home separately.
As the
pandemic plays through, it is giving us a glimpse into our inevitable
future where all meals are delivered, all entertainment comes through
the TV screen, and all human interaction is through our cell phone.
Where schooling is online at home, exercise is on a stationary bike in
our basement, medical testing is done at drive-thru windows, and
colonoscopies are performed at Jiffy Lube. The world is changing. It is
becoming less interpersonal as technology consumes us. So now that we
have time on our hands, everyone should take a moment to cherish this
fading era, when friends still get together to hit a little ball around
an open field for no good reason other than to enjoy the companionship
of their fellow man.
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