How do You Say 'Golf' in Spanish?

It's just after 8am on a brisk Saturday morning. Air clings to the bite it entertained throughout the night. The hairs on my arm bristle in a futile attempt to deflect the chill from the pale skin in which they are rooted. The crack of a three iron striking a golf balls is followed closely by the snap of can top popping open. With a hiss and fizzle the fanfare is over and I take a swig. It's a Mexican day and here I am taking my first pull from a Natural Light. Sure, it may not be south of the border but some would say that it tastes like it. Me, on the other hand, I would attempt to convince the masses it tastes like heaven. A true nectar of the gods. It's Cinco de Mayo and, for as early in the morning as it is, the beer goes down surprisingly smooth. Maybe it was the atmosphere, a rolling greenish-brown golf course on the north side of Baltimore, or maybe it was the fact I had already been up for two hours. Maybe I'll never know what massaged my throat as that golden liquid slipped down it. I'm betting on alcoholism.

There's something about being on the golf course in the morning. You really feel like you're connecting with God's country, God's people. That was especially true at this golf course. Now, I'm not saying that I'm so cool that I have to go to a public golf course to slum it up ever now and again. No, I go because, besides heading to the ocean for the weekend, the golf courses I can afford are my best shot at seeing cutoff jeans and maybe a sleeveless flannel shirt with matching mullet. It's also the only place were I can observe these great and noble creatures outside of the natural trailered habitat while enjoying the freedom to hold a beer under God's great wide open sky.

However, such privilege does not come without peril. You see, they've given the natives clubs and told them to play an educated man's game. I couldn't tell you who "they" are, but all I know is they must have enjoyed the movie, Risky Business. It's basically the equivalent of going the zoo, taking shit out of the monkey's hand and inserting a loaded 9mm in its place. He won't know what to do with it but I'll be damned if he doesn't get off a few lucky shots. And a few of those lucky shots will find their way into the hearts of innocent bystanders. That's right Billy, daddy's dead.

I feared for my life no less than three times during the course of eighteen. You think the tree you're standing next to will protect you from the unseen enemy. Then you hear it. A faint whistle in the distance. The whisper of impending doom. You freeze up, thinking maybe it's like a T-rex and can't see you unless you move. But the whistle gets louder and louder, a frozen rope from the great beyond and it's got good tone on your head. Soon, the whistle is a deafening buzz in your ear and you duck, your only true defense, as the ball goes whizzing by, severing a branch from ten feet above you. The branch falls the ground at your feet, as dead and lifeless as you almost were. You quickly cross yourself, say a hail Mary and promise to go to church more. A vain search for balls the rough swallowed resumes.

Eventually, I accepted my fate, made peace with God and got back to enjoying the scenery. But for those split seconds when my life was almost at its end, I could swear I saw God. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the morning sun off my mirrored silver 12 oz. of Natural Light. Could it be they're the same thing?