Did I see a press release today that mentioned something about a “PGA Golf Professional Hall of Fame?” Yes, I did.
First, what makes anyone think that any real “golf professional”—and by that, I mean club professional, as do they—has ever wanted or gotten any recognition whatsoever? The club pro is a dinosaur, and everyone who gives a shiite knows it. This ridiculous inauguration is tantamount to selecting the “Best Bat Boys of All Time in the Northwest Canadian Single A East Division Over-40 League.” Those bat boys are there because they love the game, and they bust their ass and bow and scrape for little or no pay just to make sure the people who think they matter can strut around like bantam roosters with their nipples pushed out.
What’s worse is that among the inaugural inductees sits the one and only Jack Nicklaus. How many times has The Golden Bear hisownself answered the telephone, “Greatwood Golf Club…This is Jack…how may I help you?” How many times has he been forced to withhold refunds on the basis of “corporate policy” when a foursome of golf travelers shows up with five? Or when, 45 minutes after taking a guy’s $500 for everyone’s green fee and rental clubs, he has to go out and marshal the course and tell the group in town from the other side of the planet “to pick up the pace or we’ll have to ask you to skip a hole.” How many times has Jack had to reschedule because he has to paint the scoreboard with his calligraphic talents for the Associated General Contractors’ scramble, and then make sure the cart jockeys got all the carts clean and the plugs right because tomorrow’s African American Female Mayors Conference has a nine-hole scramble on holes six through fifteen, right before the Westside Jaycees come out to set up a mid-morning putting tournament on the right side of hole fourteen next to the lake because it’s the “prettiest spot on the course” according to the idiot selling tournaments upstairs in the clubhouse who has never picked up a club but got the job based on her “contacts, enthusiasm and networking skills” or her mammarian latitude?
The “golf professional” as I know him is gone. Long gone. For you snot-nosed punks (along with my fellow old farts) who claim to give a shinerbock about the deterioration of society, below is what the golf pro was and—I guarantee—will never be again. If you find one, hire the guy if you’ve got a flake of a pot to piss in. This is the guy who can make chicken salad out of chicken poop and won’t even cut in his own poop to do it. To follow is something I scribbled out a few years ago and never thought would have any relevance.
Pro, circa 1999
When I was a kid, Pro was a player. He was a teacher. Most of his time was spent helping golfers learn the game. He was a friend to his customer. Private Club Pro was there for his membership. A lone golfer looking to play a few holes could walk in the shop and invite Pro to play a few holes. And Pro would accept. Pro would help him learn course management and take him to the range for a quick swing adjustment afterward. Then pro would go back and teach his assistants a few more things about becoming Pro.
Pro would go fishing with his members. He’d take a few of ’em to Vegas to play in a big fun weekend of golf and gambling. He’d take ’em to other clubs around town and challenge Crosstown Pro to a match, his versus yours. Every now and then, Pro would get to spend some time with his family.
Pro would jump on the tractor and mow fairways, if that’s what it took. He’d slosh around in the rain, handpicking range balls with his bagroom guys so the tractor-picker wouldn’t make ruts in the wet ground. He’d welcome members twice in one day—once in the morning when they’d come to play golf, and once more in the evening when they came back to the club for dinner with the family. “Have a good evening, Pro. See you tomorrow,” they’d say as Pro walked to his car in the darkness.
Pro would dream up new ways to play the same old game. His Member/Guest was the coolest tournament in town. He’d have lunch with you. Play golf with you. Go see your kid’s little league game with you. He’d set up cool ways to have fun on the course. Like You and The Masters, where you’d play a round of golf, pick a player in the field at the Masters, combine your score with your chosen player, and compete against other golfers to win stuff in Pro’s shop.
You once bought all your golf stuff from Pro. Yep. Clubs, too. Pro now sits in his windowless office leafing through budgets, income and expense reports, revenue forecasts and marketing plans. His phone rings, but he waits for the call routing system to screen, funnel and route. It’s for him.
“Hey, Pro, why don’t you come join us? We’ve only got three.”
“Thanks, pods, but I’ve got to get these reports over to corporate by 2:30. Maybe some other time.”
“You work too hard, Pro. Ok, then. Why don’t you and the missus come over around 6:30 tonight? We’re frying specks from last week’s slaughter at Port A. You know, the trip you could’ve been on?”
“Yeah, I know the trip. And you know I had the junior clinics. I can’t make it tonight. I’ve got a staff meeting at seven, then I've got to make scorecards and pinsheets for tomorrow’s charity tournament. They go off at 7:30.”
“You mean we can’t play in the morning?”
“Sorry, pods. They’ve got the course ’til two. I can put you down for the member shotgun after the tournament.”
“No thanks, Pro. I’ll play the next day. You’re no fun anymore.”
“Sorry, pods. Hopefully soon. Thanks for the invite.” ===click===
Pro sits and wonders why he got into the golf business. Why did I want to become a golf pro? Was it different back then? How did I get from the course and the range to this frickin’ desk? God, my ass has worn the paint off this chair. My clubs have cobwebs. My members are inviting me to play less and less. I can’t really blame them. Enough rejection will stop anyone. My family is pissed because I’m always up here crunching numbers. My membership is pissed because I’m not “visible.” Corporate is pissed because play is down and we’re losing members. But THOSE members? I could stand on the first tee handing out ten-dollar bills and they’d be the ones bitching about not getting two fives. Jeez, ever since GolfMart opened, I can’t sell a club. Even at cost. What has happened to this business? I’ve devoted 20 years of my life to learning, playing, teaching and promoting the game of golf. What else can I do? I remember Chuck talking about me working for him. I don’t know if I could sell insurance, though. Maybe I could start my own golf tournament planning company. Or maybe get some investors and go try to play the mini-tours. Or better yet, I’ll start my own tour. There are enough players now, thanks to Tiger. Man, has that guy got it all, or what? I’ve just got to get some corporate sponsors. Wait, I heard about a course in Idaho needing a pro. That’d be great! Work seven months, have five months off. Maybe I’ll go interview for that. Have to get the family to agree to move, though. That’s gonna be tough. Jenny just started getting into soccer and Danny’s getting in fewer fights at school. Besides, Marge is getting more active at church and school and here I am thinking of pulling up roots.
…to be continued |
