Thursday, May 14, 1998
Beware, Tiger: Happy Gilmore reigns as true master of golf
COLUMN: Adam Sandler inspires fanatical worship of often-scorned
‘sport’
As the members of the UCLA men’s golf team swing their clubs
today and putt their way to hopeful victory, I feel envious.
What I wouldn’t give to be able to swing a one wood and watch
that little ball fly in the crisp rays of the sun.
But there was once a time that I was a non-believer.
I hated golf: those crappy, wanna-be break dancing pants, the
apparent snobbiness of all who play and the annoying fact that golf
gets to be called a sport.
I hated how golf would be shown on TV instead of baseball or
basketball games on Saturday and Sunday.
Golf a sport? There is no contact, no running, no chance for
injury.
What kind of sport is this?
Then in 1996, my first year at UCLA, my sentiments toward golf
changed.
The transformation did not occur on the greens but rather inside
Ackerman Grand Ballroom.
As the room dimmed and the sneak peek of "Happy Gilmore" began
rolling, I fell in love with golf.
Gilmore showed me that golf can be fun and that you don’t have
to sit in silence while playing.
"The crocodile who took Chubb’s hand, the club throw, the
violent outbursts. Now this was a sport," I thought as I stared
upon the movie.
The rest of the week I fell asleep with visions of a miniature
golf course clown laughing at me as I tried to learn how to
putt.
Whenever I came across golf on ABC or ESPN I would pause and
wait to see if a player would show some kind of emotion … but it
proved to no avail.
That’s when the idea flashed across my mind: I would become the
real life Happy Gilmore of the PGA. So I grabbed my friend and
borrowed his brother’s golf clubs to accomplish my dreams. Dammit,
I was going to be the first Gilmore.
But boy, would I be humbled.
I thought golf would be as easy as hitting a baseball off of a
tee with a skinny Louisville Slugger.
But no … my dream hit a snag, or shall I say a sand trap.
My first swing with a golf club was with a seven iron on a
driving range, and I sliced the ball right past the foot of my
neighboring golfer.
That’s when I learned the harsh reality: Golf actually took some
physicality and intelligence.
No walking up and slamming the ball 300 yards like Gilmore.
Damn, I could barely hit the ball 100 yards.
But I would not be denied my Gilmore fantasy as I ventured off
the driving range and onto the real course: 18 holes of walking
hell.
My first drive plunked into a stream. My second hit a tree,
nearly killing a squirrel. My third found its way into a sand trap
where I spent the next several swings building a sandcastle.
Putting was even harder. The green was sloped, and I kept
hitting it past the cup, not being able to go to my "happy place"
(at least I was good at that part of Gilmore’s game).
At the end of the day I walked off the course a tired and
defeated young man, my dreams shattered, my golfing shoes hanging
in a closet.
But in 1997, my golfing dream once again resurfaced.
Most of the sports fans reading this will think I am referring
to Tiger Woods, who captured the Masters. Oh, the world was ablaze
with Tiger stories, and the popularity of golf began to rise
because of Woods, but he had no effect on me (except for that jazzy
rap hook on Chris Rock’s "Champagne").
Sorry El Tigre, but something more important happened. My
wonderful brother would buy me "Happy Gilmore" for my birthday and,
as Celine Dion would say, my heart (would) go on.
So every weekend I watch Gilmore and learn from the master,
hoping one day to be in the Masters, throwing my club when I shank
my drive. Every time I go to the course I practice my swing with
the "Happy Gilmore" song ringing in my ears. Gilmore has become the
second strongest driving force in my life behind my girlfriend, who
has become my "Happy Gilmore"-watching caddy.
As our Bruins get ready to tee off today, I hope they watch
their Gilmore tapes and listen to the powerful words that Adam
Sandler once said: "That’s your home ball … Are you too good for
your home? Answer me!"
Salmon hears the Asteroids calling him from the game room so
e-mail responses to [email protected].
Rocky Salmon