Misfits - Golfers You'd Prefer Not to Play With

By: Joel Zuckerman

Just like most of you, I love to play golf. Unlike some, I've played and continue to play regularly with an incredibly wide range of golfers - different ages, backgrounds, abilities, geographies, attitudes, incomes, philosophies and habits. Sure, I have my regular cronies, normal foursomes and favorite golf buddies. But as a travel writer and avowed Vagabond Golfer, often is the occasion where I'm thrust into a brand-new situation with folks who introduce themselves on the first tee.

Most of these experiences are rewarding. Others are less so. But the sum total of the people I've encountered over the years made me realize that there are definite "types" out there trolling the fairways, often the rough, occasionally the woods, of our 16,000 some-odd courses.

So with the help of illustrator nonpareil Jeff Wong, herewith is a "Golfer's Guide" to your local links. It doesn't matter if your home track is like Augusta, Disgusta, or somewhere in the vast middle. Because the folks you're about to meet are universal in type. This handy guide will help you identify in moments some of the regular denizens of virtually any course in the nation.

The Ball Hawk (Carpe Strata)

Nobody likes to waste bullets. Whether you spend $5 or $50 a dozen, any player lacking a full-time bag toter or without their name stitched onto their golf bag is reluctant to let a pellet go, at least not without a cursory search.

The key word is cursory. Ball Hawks have a strain of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. They may not wash their hands every 10 minutes or repeatedly check to see that the house is locked before work, but in a way their affliction is worse. They hold up the golf course ad infinitum, searching desperately for a bargain-bin castoff that no amount of cleaning will ever restore past the color of dull parchment. If it's in the lagoon they're ready to put on waders. If it's in the woods they'll don mosquito netting.

These wackos need a cold dose of reality, the type once administered to me by my good pal Rhino. Whining a bit after taking some time looking for a shiny Top-Flite, I explained that normally I wouldn't waste time on the task, but the ball was brand-new. "No it isn't," rebuked the twice-a-year golfer harshly. "You already hit it once." True enough, upon reflection.

The Booze Hound (Sertin Cirrhosis)

Playing golf and drinking beer are among my favorite hobbies, though they're rarely indulged concurrently. The rationale is twofold. First, it takes every ounce of energy and concentration for me to navigate the links efficiently. Despite this self-imposed sobriety, too often the final scorecard tally is a number closer to body temperature than par. Second, I'm a believer in the 19th hole. Here, in the cool conviviality of the tavern or from the back deck overlooking the final green, does one indulges in a couple of icy beers while recounting the triumphs and traumas of the completed round.

But not everyone feels the same way. Mellow fellows lubricate with a beer or two per round. Those who rely on "swing oil" to keep their game together indulge in a couple per side. But the real problem child is that boozing nuisance who indulges in a beer or two per hole.

The Club Chucker (Homo-Naturae Javelina)

A round of golf is an emotional rollercoaster, and different personality traits often emerge. Some golfers are tranquil, others gregarious, some lively and others withdrawn. And some are downright angry. The anger manifests in different ways. Swearing is the standard, more common than foot-stomping or turf-kicking.

Most ill-tempered golfers aren't inherently dangerous, save for the Club Chucker. There's probably not a player alive that hasn't whipped an offending instrument down the fairway. At any 19th hole players tell tales of crazies who, in a fit of pique, tossed clubs into tree branches, the underbrush or a nearby water hazard.

Fortunately, most such players mature and amend their ways. They learn to leave their cut-off jeans at home, the colored golf balls in the bargain bin and their clubs in the bag. But some never learn.

The Cretin (TifDwarf Rex)

Does it irk you to see someone toss a cigarette butt out a car window? A cretin is likely to dump the entire ashtray into the middle of the road. Golfers like this just don't care. Period.

How can one even count the ways they offend on the links? They might be clattering around at the ball washer, blithely cleansing their orb (a stolen striper in the most insidious cases) at the exact moment you begin your backswing. They are of the mindset that the shortest distance between their ball and the cup is directly across your putting line, and not one in a hundred would be considered light on their feet.

They don't pick up a flagstick, they don't pick up a bar tab, they don't pick up the cart girl, but unlike the first two examples, the last is not for lack of trying. Ability is irrelevant; but think of the classiest golfers you know - maybe a Bobby Jones, Byron Nelson or Jack Nicklaus. Now think of the polar opposite. That's your classic cretin.

The Cry Baby (Whinus Continuous)

Life has dealt this complainer a bad hand. Or so he tells his playing partners. He might as well have the words "Why Me?" tattooed across his forehead, so quick does he find fault with a passing cloud, an unexpected breeze, the sudden birdsong coming from a nearby tree.

He goes through life wearing puce-colored glasses. He loves da Vinci's enigmatic painting, the "Moaner Lisa." His all-time favorite movie is the "Days of Whiner Roses." His name might not be Murphy, but he's a staunch proponent of Murphy's Law nonetheless.

The Space Cadet (Gravitas Zilch)

This unfortunate fellow leaves his mark in all walks of life, on and off the golf course. You'll see him aimlessly circling the mall parking lot, looking for his vehicle and, in extreme moments of desperation, asking passersby if they've seen a white Honda hatchback.

He's been known to miss airline connections even though he arrived at gate 27 in plenty of time. Problem was he was in Terminal B instead of Terminal D. He'll go to the baseball field to pick up Junior after practice, though his wife told him pointedly to fetch Missy at her music lesson.

On the course it's more of the same. Though he's the only guy in the county still playing with fluorescent Top-Flites, he'll hit the wrong ball at least twice a round. Don't ask him to keep the scorecard, he'll screw it up. Don't ask him to drive the cart; he'll end up at the wrong hole. Don't ask him anything, except: "Isn't there medication available for people in your condition?"

This story is excerpted from "Misfits on the Links," a book by Joel Zuckerman with illustrations by Jeff Wong, copyright 2006, published by Andrews-McMeel, 84 pages, $13.95, ISBN 978-0-7407-5706-8. The book is available at www.vagabondgolfer.com.

Joel Zuckerman is an award-winning travel writer based in Savannah, Ga., and Park City, Utah. He is the only two-time winner of the Book of the Year Award as bestowed by the International Network of Golf. His most recent Book of the Year winner is titled "Pro's Pros – Extraordinary Club Professionals Making Golf Great!" which took this prestigious honor in January 2014. This is the first-ever golf book to shine the spotlight on the beating heart of golf – the unsung, yet hard-working club professional. His next project, slated for release in early 2016, is titled "Golfers Giving Back," which will be an unprecedented look at some of the nation's most exceptional charity golf tournaments. Joel's course reviews, player profiles, essays and features have appeared in 110 publications, including Sports Illustrated, Golf, Continental Magazine and Delta's Sky Magazine. He has played more than 800 courses in 40-plus states and a dozen countries. For more about Joel or to order any of his books, visit www.vagabondgolfer.com.

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