Wednesday, April 27, 2011


I am generally a good sport. I am terrible at most sports but can have a grand time when with good company. I love bowling, though I average about 40 points per game. I have developed a love for hiking, though I am winded 15 minutes in and am really slow. I can even enjoy an afternoon at the driving range, though every ball I hit manages to bounce a few times before even leaving the gate. What I can’t handle is a game of putt-putt.

Miniature golfing is stupid. I remember as a kid liking and hating putt-putt at the same time. As an adult, I am finally able to recognize it for what it is: an annoying humiliation.

Andy took me miniature golfing for one of our first dates. I warned him that I was a poor sport and would not be much fun but I promised to give it a try. After getting our stupid little sticks and our stupid little balls, I took my pretty pink ball and threw it right into the stream. I looked at Andy and said, “It will end up there anyway,” with a shrug. He obtained a new ball and the game began.

Andy became increasingly frustrated with me as I met his helpful putting hints with disdain and threats. He tried to teach me good putting form; I preferred either whacking the ball as hard as I could or dragging the ball with my stick directly to the hole. Eventually, he gave up and laughed at my shenanigans.

That was almost 7 years ago. We haven't been since.

I’m not sure what it is about miniature golf (and board games) that makes me such a poor sport. I can’t think it’s because I’m bad at it—I’ve demonstrated above that I’m bad at a lot of things I enjoy. It might be the jolly little courses that mock you as you fail. Who knows.

Happy Gilmore knows what I'm talking about.

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