mike camerlengo
I’m an idiot. Not because I get super confused during body switch movies, because I’m sure that happens to everyone. And not because I once filled in the References section of a job application with “You’re not going to call though, right?” I’m an idiot for another reason. A simpler reason. I’m going golfing on Saturday…and even worse, I think I’m going to play pretty well.
The thing is, I’m not very good at golf. Nobody really is, but I’m not good in a way where I’ve asked on more than one occasion if accidentally killing someone with a tee shot is considered manslaughter. FYI, nobody seems to know.
“Is it murder if a Titleist flies 270 yards in the wrong direction? I call that, God’s will!”
I rip my head up when I swing. I top fairway shots. I hit 8 inches behind a ball when I chip and nearly break my wrist. I hook drives. I push putts. I launch clubs. I nervously laugh like a dad who just told a little league coach that he’d burn down his house if his son doesn’t bat cleanup. I drink. I smoke. I crumble. I fist pump. I cry. I bogey. I bogey. I double bogey. I par (I’m back baby!). I triple bog— ah fuck this.
I do it all. But for some reason, I think Saturday is going to go well.
And why? What over the course of this six-month, depressing as hell, New York winter, have I done to improve my golf game? Easy. I tricked my brain.
I kept a Golf Digest by my toilet and I looked at it every time I sat down. Something about reading an article titled “Beef Up Your Swing” for the 9th time makes me think I’m ready to crush.
I’ve also been involved in what I refer to as “heavy visualization.” During Christmas, while everyone was opening presents, I tilted my head back and envisioned chipping onto the 17th green with absolutely no thoughts of a mental breakdown. And that’s tough, especially on 17 where I once lost four balls and broke a sand wedge over my knee before assuring the nervous couple I was playing with that I didn’t have any weapons in the car.
Some people take expensive lessons, get swing coaches, and go on trips to warm destinations to stay fresh over the winter. Not me. I practiced rotating my hips in Starbucks while a group of teens talked about weird sounding drugs that I’d Google in horror later that night. Wait you take that BEFORE school!?!
Plus, I watched golf. A ton. I learned a lot from Bubba Watson winning the Genesis Open in February. I had just come in from shoveling out my car for over three hours and I see Bubba swinging. Head down. Through the ball. It’s easy. Golf is easy if you think about it. And I did think about it…between October and now.
I thought about it on Valentine’s Day when I learned the meaning of prix fixe is “hahaha I can’t believe you fell for this you dumb fuck.” I thought about it in December when it was 18 degrees and I wore so many layers that I couldn’t tell if I was sweating or a case of apple sauce exploded in my armpits. I thought about it on New Year’s Eve when the Uber prices surged so high that my app simply said NO MIKE, WE ARE CONNECTED TO YOUR BANK ACCOUNT AND HONESTLY YOU CAN’T AFFORD THIS.
I thought about golf. I tricked my brain. It was easy.
And that’s why I’m going to go out there on Saturday and play well. I’m going to drive, chip, and putt. Not smoke, drink and cry. I’m going to wear my new shirt. I’m going to keep my head down. I’m going to keep score the whole time with single digit numbers like 4s and 5s. I will not threaten a flagstick with violence. I will not call my ball a “fucking communist” even when it’s clear that it’s taunting me. I will not throw my tee shot 46 yards down the fairway just because “my grandfather fought in WWII and it’s what he would have wanted.”
That’s right, after a long winter I’m going to play golf on Saturday. I’m going to play well. And that’s why I’m a god damn idiot.
I rip my head up when I swing. I top fairway shots. I hit 8 inches behind a ball when I chip and nearly break my wrist. I hook drives. I push putts. I launch clubs. I nervously laugh like a dad who just told a little league coach that he’d burn down his house if his son doesn’t bat cleanup. I drink. I smoke. I crumble. I fist pump. I cry. I bogey. I bogey. I double bogey. I par (I’m back baby!). I triple bog— ah fuck this.
I do it all. But for some reason, I think Saturday is going to go well.
And why? What over the course of this six-month, depressing as hell, New York winter, have I done to improve my golf game? Easy. I tricked my brain.
I kept a Golf Digest by my toilet and I looked at it every time I sat down. Something about reading an article titled “Beef Up Your Swing” for the 9th time makes me think I’m ready to crush.
I’ve also been involved in what I refer to as “heavy visualization.” During Christmas, while everyone was opening presents, I tilted my head back and envisioned chipping onto the 17th green with absolutely no thoughts of a mental breakdown. And that’s tough, especially on 17 where I once lost four balls and broke a sand wedge over my knee before assuring the nervous couple I was playing with that I didn’t have any weapons in the car.
Some people take expensive lessons, get swing coaches, and go on trips to warm destinations to stay fresh over the winter. Not me. I practiced rotating my hips in Starbucks while a group of teens talked about weird sounding drugs that I’d Google in horror later that night. Wait you take that BEFORE school!?!
Plus, I watched golf. A ton. I learned a lot from Bubba Watson winning the Genesis Open in February. I had just come in from shoveling out my car for over three hours and I see Bubba swinging. Head down. Through the ball. It’s easy. Golf is easy if you think about it. And I did think about it…between October and now.
I thought about it on Valentine’s Day when I learned the meaning of prix fixe is “hahaha I can’t believe you fell for this you dumb fuck.” I thought about it in December when it was 18 degrees and I wore so many layers that I couldn’t tell if I was sweating or a case of apple sauce exploded in my armpits. I thought about it on New Year’s Eve when the Uber prices surged so high that my app simply said NO MIKE, WE ARE CONNECTED TO YOUR BANK ACCOUNT AND HONESTLY YOU CAN’T AFFORD THIS.
I thought about golf. I tricked my brain. It was easy.
And that’s why I’m going to go out there on Saturday and play well. I’m going to drive, chip, and putt. Not smoke, drink and cry. I’m going to wear my new shirt. I’m going to keep my head down. I’m going to keep score the whole time with single digit numbers like 4s and 5s. I will not threaten a flagstick with violence. I will not call my ball a “fucking communist” even when it’s clear that it’s taunting me. I will not throw my tee shot 46 yards down the fairway just because “my grandfather fought in WWII and it’s what he would have wanted.”
That’s right, after a long winter I’m going to play golf on Saturday. I’m going to play well. And that’s why I’m a god damn idiot.