"I realized that I’d gone through every one of those stages, but not as a terminal patient...as a golfer."
/Larry David has finally accepted that he'll never be a good golfer, or so he writes in The New Yorker. Warning, it opens with a glitch (Riviera's 175-yard 4th...where are the vaunted New Yorker fact checkers calling Larry to ask if he's really playing the forward tees?).
Think what I could’ve done with all that time. Learned French. Piano. I’d be playing Chopin now if it weren’t for golf. Playing Chopin for Julie Delpy. But instead I wasted my life on this game. It looked so easy. The ball just sits there. Any idiot could do it. But every instinct I had was wrong. You’re supposed to hit the ball down to make it go up. That’s absurd. I want to hit it up to make it go up. When I try to hit down, it’s like I’m splitting a log with an axe. All I do is chop up the course. And then there’s this one: the easier you swing, the farther the ball goes. How can that be? So you hit down to make it go up and swing easy to make it go far?
