Spring Isn’t All Its Cracked Up To Be…

Ah spring, when a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of shaking off winter’s chill and hitting the luscious links. It is the time of year when hopes are high with the tweeting sounds of birdies, or dare I say, eagles.

Augusta’s April arrival inspires us to schedule the season’s first tee time. In truth, we would be better off staying home watching Masters’ highlights, perhaps the Golden Bear mauling the competition in ’86 or Tiger clawing his way to excellence in ‘97.


Augusta National

But instead, we venture out to the club. A young chap, clad in his airy new golf shirt and slacks, saunters down the cart path, eyes wide and smile wider. His innocent splendor is abruptly halted by a dying piece of ice, still slick enough to send this lad to a terrific tumble, his top and trousers now tattered and torn.

Ah spring, when the smell of rain meets the scent of dingy, dirt-covered snow. Everything is melting: the icicles, the slushy sludge, the paint on the clubhouse. This is the time of year when a five minute jaunt to the driving range exhausts a five-year supply of windshield washer fluid.

Get Ready For Rain, Mud and Allergies

Mud. It’s dirty. It’s slippery. It’s everywhere. Your hat is mud. Your shoes are mud. Your next door neighbor’s tricked out golf cart is mud. Mud is on your towel and your golf balls.

Face it, your golf bag is a sand castle, but that’s mud. That’s spring, the time of year when greenskeepers have to plant grass, cut grass, rake grass, plant grass again, and do all of this while telling the gallery denizens to stay off the grass.


Muddy golf

Ah spring, when everyone has a cold, but we deserve it. In fact, we ask for it. The first time the thermometer climbs above 45 degrees, we are out there prancing around in shorts and t-shirts, practicing putts or working on wedges.

As soon as it is warm enough to leave the house and not have your hair gel petrify, it’s party time. We swing. We walk. We sing. There we are, proclaiming the rebirth of life and celebrating the renewal of good times and golf. Then, a sneeze and a cough, and it’s bed time and broth for a week.

Ah spring, when ants, ticks, beetles, wasps, mosquitoes, and flies make their return to the course. Bees and hornets are the worst. In spring, they are just looking for a quick sting to tide them over until the main onslaught sometime in late June.

They have no conscience; youth golfers, seniors, and every duffer in between are all fair game. I despise bugs, but the insect versus golfer battle is awesome. They are more numerous. We are stronger. They can fly. We can step on them when they land. They can bite or sting us. We can spray them with poison. Spring renews this immense ecological war.

Ah spring, when we go on a diet in May hoping to look like Dustin Johnson or Michelle Wie by June. Since October, we have stuffed ourselves with glazed, frosted, chocolate, fried, mashed, roasted, caramel, marshmallow, sugar stuff. Now, we are eyeing Rickie Fowleresque shirts and golf skirts so skimpy they would make Holly Sonders blush.


Michelle Wie

Spring is hot. Spring is cold. Spring is rain, sun, snow, sleet, muck, and mud. Ah spring, wake me in July!

John Molori is an award-winning author, columnist, and commentator. Like him on Facebook at John Molori, Twitter @MoloriMedia. Email molorimedia@gmail.com.