The boy played a little golf this afternoon with his buddy, Enzo.
I think I could drive from our house to the golf course with my eyes PLUM CLOSED these days, because I drive that route SO OFTEN.
That boy of ours would play golf until it was too dark to see the ball any longer… Or until the sprinklers came on… Or until his mama stood on the running board of the Suburban and yelled out, “I won’t tell you again! Get your clubs and get into the Suburban right this second, before my head explodes!”
Not that I would ever shout that out on the golf course.
Shouting isn’t really ACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR there. Hubs and I have to put the giant foam fingers away when we watch all the golfing. We have to leave our cowbells at home. We have to remember that the air horns are frowned upon on the 7th hole.
And there are no souped-up T-Shirt launchers brought out when the boy sinks a putt.
Hubs and I are learning that being a golf spectator means that we have to gain some Fan Maturity.
We’re working on it, people. Why, just this very afternoon, when the boy nailed a long putt with a single swing of his putter, I clapped quietly. Exactly like I was at a very dignified, late-morning tea with the Queen of England. Exactly like I was wearing long white gloves and pearls.
Even though, inside my head, I was all, “WA-HOO! WA-HOO! WHOOP! WHOOP! THERE IT IS!!”
And then I wanted to shake some brightly-colored pom-poms with aggression and cheer, “Shake it to the left! Shake it to the right! Come on, smack that ball! Fight, fight, fight!”