How I Was Finally Able To Stop Playing Golf.

If you like golf more power to you. I am not a fan. The reason why isn’t only due to the game itself. Although it is boring as hell. My hatred goes much deeper than that. It started when I was ten. My dad had taken me golfing after school ever since I was that age. I could have been hanging out with my friends or playing video games. Instead, I had to spend the better parts of my weekends and summer break hitting a ball with a crooked stick. If that wasn’t bad enough my dad was never light on his coaching. If he thought I was slacking even a little he’d threaten to take away my video games.

Two months after my sixteenth birthday, which I still had to golf on by the way something happened that freed me. School was only a week away. My dad had been training me nonstop to impress the other parents when summer break ended. This meant I had to practice out in the blistering August heat.

That particular day I wasn’t doing as well as I normally would. I often got anxious the week or so before school started. My dad wasn’t having any of that, though.

“Your form is terrible, Randy,” My dad yelled at me.

“I’m trying,” I snapped back.

“Don’t take that tone with me. Until you get the number of holes I told you to you aren’t getting that Nintend thingy back.”