It’s like watching the grass grow on greens on TV

It finally happened. I never thought it would, I am so ashamed. I hope no one saw me.

It has come to this. This weekend, I watched golf on television. The horror!

All my life, I have equated watching golf on television with the end of the line. Yes, I will watch baseball, football, college basketball around the clock. Even some replays of “vintage” Red Sox games. I am a hopeless, powerless addict.

But golf? That is worse than watching paint dry, watching grass grow.

Times have changed.

First, No. 3 daughter found a wicked Portland sale where a golf set, complete with clubs and bag, went for just over $150. Even I could swing that, for my very first set of golf clubs. Then for my birthday I got a pair of (white) golf shoes – with cleats even. On my very worst days, I never envisioned myself in white golf shoes. Now, I love them. Next I will be buying Pat Boone albums.

To complete the Sammy Snead ensemble, I also was awarded a golf glove, including a little silver stud to “mark” your ball when you are on the green.

Pitiful.

I usually golfed once or maybe twice a year, whenever Frankie Renew, the smartest man in New England, visited and insisted. I would take a dozen balls and quit when I was out – usually five holes. I never bothered keeping score, giving myself an automatic 10 on each hole. I took only three clubs – driver, putter and sand wedge – because I never knew what the others were for and did not care.

On this Florida trip, I golfed no less than four times in a single month, once doing 18 holes, while losing no more than three or four balls.

My favorite shot was a long water hazard. My usual approach is to hit two of three drives into the water, then walk around to the other side and start all over again. If memory serves (it rarely does) I have never hit a golf ball over the water successfully.

But wait.

This time, I hit my typical grounder-drive into the water and it skipped across the surface, “bounced” several times and made it to the other side.

It was a miracle. I am a golfer now.

I tuned in to the Masters Tournament last week, just to see Tiger Woods win, as usual. Naturally, I was astonished at the shots all of the professionals made. But the announcer once called golfers “athletes.”

Now wait a minute. A few weeks ago, Tiger berated some photographer for taking a picture while Tiger was driving. Too much distraction, I guess. Golfers are not athletes. Athletes stand in front of 70,000 rabid, screaming Yankee Stadium fans who would like to burn them at the stake while they’re trying to hit a round ball, traveling at 94 miles an hour, with a round bat.

Golfers are “athletes” like dart players and checkers players are “athletes.”

I mean, I loved the Masters, but the funereal tones of the television broadcasters and the cello music at every break were a bit much. In the end, it is a bunch of men dressed like pimps, strolling around a yard hitting a ball with sticks. It is, as Mark Twain said, a good walk ruined.

Naturally, I rooted for Mark O’Meara. He must be a relative. How many O’Mearas are there?

Well, Tiger didn’t win after all. I had given up watching by the weekend. Even I can watch only so much. But my interest in the game remains high, now that I have used more than three clubs in the bag. I might have used a 6-iron the other day, but I would not swear to it.

If this keeps up, I may buy some of those pimp shirts and brightly colored pants.

I might even start keeping score.

Naaaah.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.