AN INTRODUCTION

Playing the great game of golf has provided me with many wonderful experiences through the years. My playing partners have primarily been my family and a few close friends so I have been blessed by spending quality time with those closest to me. Since our play is almost always recreational, I have learned the game for its own sake and enjoy it free of the gamesmanship and pressure of competition. I have also concluded that my game should be a heck of a lot better than it is and not long ago I determined to find out what was the matter.

I was aware that golfers the world over have blamed their bad play on the "the golf gods" for as long as anyone could remember; but I also knew golfers have blamed their bad play on a lot of other things too. Lame excuses such as injuries, course conditions, the weather and slow carts have all had their time at bat. Where was the evidence indicting these gods? What were they? Where did they come from? How did they operate and why? Nobody had any answers and I was on my own so I did what all serious researchers do these days. I surfed the net, watched movies and talked to people who knew even less about the subject than I did then wrote a book about it.

I learned a little from surfing the net, a little more from the movies and the most from two of my fellow sufferers who incidentally, and fortunately for my research, also suffer from active imaginations. These two are my son, Richie, and my long time friend, Jimmy Daniel. The Story of the Gods of Golf describes the only possible scenario that fits the results of the research and what all golfers know; something downright evil is keeping us from being as good as we know we really are.

Contained within are many attempts at humor in the form of satire, sarcasm, irony and literary slapstick. It is up to the reader to decide their success. While barbs have been aimed at many organizations, institutions, nations and other entities, no animosity or prejudice is felt or intended.

The term god or gods are used many times in this book and are sometimes capitalized when used in the title of the book or painting. Those terms always refer to the "deities" of ancient cultures and folklore. There is no inference to or connection with The One True God.

This book is dedicated to my wife, Carolyn, my daughter, Angela, my two sons, Ronnie and Richie, Dorothy and Jack Montgomery, Jimmy Daniel and all the players everywhere who couldn't be driven from the game by THE GODS OF GOLF®.

IN THE BEGINNING

The most cursory reading of history reveals that all ancient societies had gods of various types. These pantheons were in control of all aspects of human life such as humor, health, food, love, weather, travel and checkers. You name it and there was at least one god for it and everyone knew that if they broke the gods' rules they would pay the price. For a long time everything was in harmony. The people were quite carefree living their simple lives and the gods had plenty to do to keep them all unhappy.

As time went by and human misery increased on its own due to the unfortunate development of wars, plagues, famine and politicians; the gods didn't have to do as much. They became disinterested and relaxed and as the people pretty much forgot about them they went into observer status.

Inactivity bred laziness and the gods let their temples run down. There were weeds, leaky roofs, bad plumbing and drug dealers. It looked a lot like modern government housing.

To their credit however, and with help from their watery and big screen version of in-floor television that they called "the pool" (remember the movie "Jason and the Argonauts"?), the gods kept up with what was happening around the world. Cultures and nations came and went. Discoveries were made and peoples of many shapes, sizes and colors populated all the lands. The gods, seeing all this and knowing that wherever mankind goes, his greed, deceit, diseases and politicians go with him, continued to be pleased and maintained their hands-off attitude.

GOLF IS INVENTED

When the maddening game of golf was being developed way back in the 15th and 16th centuries, the gods' interest level perked up. The players seemed to derive some level of enjoyment from it and for a time they thought their services would again be needed. However, upon further investigation and taking note of the weather conditions in Scotland and the primitive equipment being used, they decided that merely playing the game at this time and place was punishment enough. They did see potential though and set golf as a favorite on the pool remote control but decided to let well enough alone for the time being.

The gods, especially Zeus, chief of the gods, became quite fond of this - the original golf channel. Zeus watched as the game developed and the early greats made their marks. Priding himself on his size, strength and athletic abilities he admired the early masters such as the old and young Tom Morris'es, Charlie Macdonald and Harry Vardon and harbored a secret desire to play the game himself.

In the mid 20th century, interest in golf exploded on a worldwide basis. There were many reasons for this. Some would point to the PGA tour and TV but many more would point to golf carts, cool clothes and the availability of alcohol. The reasons being what they were, certain things were undeniable. Many beautiful courses were constructed in decent climates, clubs and balls were modernized and the masses were able to play the game in comfort and they loved it.

The gods knew they were back in business!

THE GODS MAKE UP A FOURSOME

To say Zeus wasn't energized by this development would be to say a modern American CEO wasn't overcompensated. Here was great opportunity after such a long time and in an area he had a strong interest in to boot. Zeus knew that to ruin countless rounds of golf in a believable and discrete way he needed more intimate knowledge of the game than their golf channel could provide. The only option was to actually play.

Zeus didn't get to be head god on his good looks alone. Instead of approaching the game as most mortals do, he decided to take lessons first. Not wanting to mingle with humans any more than necessary, he quickly put together a foursome of his own pedigree. A few of the other gods were hanging around the temple and he picked out three he calculated he could beat.

Loki, the god of trickery, was in town on an interpantheon technical interchange program from the Norse Division. He is kind of top heavy and Zeus figured it would take him at least two strokes to reach his drive so Loki was in.

Zeus at first didn't want a female in the group. He saw in the pool how they had to be taken to their own special little tee and how their clothes and hair had to be just right and how most of them didn't really seem to give a damn about the game to start with. Given that there were a lot of goddesses around and he had to at least appear to be nonsexist he decided to have one. After all, even ugly ones look good in golf attire - and an ugly one he got.

Sirena, a wannabe goddess of shipwrecks, was at that moment finishing the last of a dozen Krispy Kremes when a roach the size of a small housecat made a break from under Zeus's throne and ran for the cellar. Sirena was accustomed to such things having been in the run down temple for a while and reacted even faster than a tourist to Mexican water. In one fluid (no pun intended) motion she seized Zeus's scepter and launched the roach out of the window as neatly as a 20 yard flop shot over a trap within a gimme of the cup. Zeus saw that she had potential and, as with Loki and darn near every other woman, her lack of a long game would keep her score higher than his.

The roach encounter had pretty well cleared out the temple and their fourth was decided by default. Dionysus, god of intoxication, was hurriedly finishing off all the abandoned wine chalices. He was in no condition to run anyway so he was profiting on the situation and got the nod.

Zeus wasn't wasting time. He put the brothers Overus and Chargus, the gods of construction, and Bugonius, the god of pest control, backed up by Mars, the god of war - remember how big the roach was - to work putting his temple back in shape and changing the water in the pool for a clearer picture. He had Bobbin, the goddess of sewing, make them all a period wardrobe; then he supplied each of them with four credit cards, a passport and plane tickets from Moscow to golf clinics all around the world. Zeus wanted a long and varied trip to assure an understanding of the human condition and the value they put on recreation plus a universal knowledge of the game. They were to meet in three months at a certain public course outside of Atlanta to begin play. They were then beamed down to a street corner not far from Red Square by Fordius, the god of transportation, and went their separate ways.

THE GODS LEARN THE GAME

Their experiences with lessons would make a sizable book itself. Having to put up with public transportation, sleep in malodorous hotel rooms next to busy runways and highways and eat common food after the comforts of their pampered existence was bad enough; but subordinating their all powerful selves to arrogant, know-it-all, golf instructors was really hard for them to swallow. It wasn't all bad though. A few examples should suffice for this history.

Dionysus, as we know, was the god of strong drink. Occupational hazards being not restricted to humankind; Dionysus was, and still is, very close to the bottle. The reality is he is nothing but a drunk. His wine soaked constitution took some time to adjust to Russian vodka; but adjust it did and he didn't get out of Moscow for six weeks and with three maxed out credit cards.

Dionysus showed up late at a pricey and exclusive Scottish clinic in Edinburgh, a city close to the golf's beginnings. Zeus figured the lush would be drunk most of the time and wouldn't care about the wind, rain, fog, snow and mind-numbing cold. After all, he was scheduled for their summer.

Dionysus, or Dion as he now called himself in an embarrassing effort to fit in; and occasionally remembering what he was there for and the likelihood of Zeus's wrath to come if he didn't learn something of the game, dutifully took all of two lessons. His first attempt at a swing revealed a weight shift like no other. As the clubhead got up to his shoulders and even before the downswing started he teetered off the back of the practice tee and fell over a fat woman on the putting green. After that, the instructor, responsible and proper Scot that he was, leaned Dion against a swing trainer and had him watch as he hit a few balls. That was lesson one and Dion retired to the bar. Lesson two was spent riding their course in a cart as the instructor explained some of the game's finer points such as what and where the tees and greens are and where the ball is ultimately to go on each hole. Dion's interest peaked as he saw a sign pointing toward the 19th hole; and after a few scotch and sodas he said this part of the game was much easier to learn and he thought he could play it as well as anyone.

Dion made many friends at the clinic; as many as his last credit card would attract. One of the owners, wanting to get Dion out of sight as soon as possible and retain his establishment's good name, helped him get on a redeye to Atlanta just before he used it all up. It was lost on Dion a parting comment by the owner that any bloody flight he got on would be a redeye.

Loki got out of Moscow in one day with a black eye, a fat lip and the suspicion that Russians don't have a sense of humor. It seemed like great fun to him to stand in front of shops and shout "Hey, they got a lot of good stuff in here" and watch the poor hungry people run over and form a line. He got away with this for hours until his limited sign reading skills caused his downfall. He didn't realize his last try was in front of a Siberian salt mine recruiting station. Loki's clinic was in South Africa and he made it in restraints after walking the length of the Aeroflot flight with a burning length of dynamite fuse hanging out of his fly. He was now convinced that the Russians don't have a sense of humor.

His lessons went smoothly at the snooty, exclusive and whites only establishment near Cape Town. Zeus was right about his long game. They were on the sprinkler line but 150 yards was tops. Loki, however, had a short game to kill for. If he ever got clean within 40 yards of the hole he was down in two and his sand play was sheer poetry. This particular ability would serve him well.

Loki used up most of his capital, both monetary and personal, on his tricks but that was what he did for a living. Among other things, he put tar in the ball washers, rearranged the starter's list for each morning and wedged the pins in the cups. Since it was a hilly course he just couldn't resist greasing the brake linings on the carts; and as a parting gesture in sympathy with the native citizens, he had coupons printed for free lessons at the clinic and handed them out all over the nearest black township. He left just after the riot started and reached Atlanta on time and ready to play.

Sirena didn't just like food. She liked men even more. For her, Moscow was like Venusberg, a singles bar and a Caribbean cruise ship all rolled into one. After all, Russian men had never seen anything but fat, ugly women and Sirena has a most beautiful and seductive singing voice as we shall see later.

She stayed in Moscow as long as she could but had to leave in the middle of the night disguised as a man – this wasn't very difficult as long as she refrained from singing – after receiving a tip from a close, very close, friend. It seems that the KGB had heard of her debauchery and run a background check. After that came up dry they assigned an agent to seduce her, find out her secrets and get the whole thing on video. The agent had absolutely no trouble in bringing off the seduction part and when he had recovered, dragged himself and his film down to headquarters for a different kind of debriefing. What they saw is still remembered in the Kremlin today. The things Sirena had in her purse and did to and for that agent weren't in the puritanical commie culture and would make a veteran Hollywood porn star blanch. When the report and the film got out in the late 1980's it showed the public what they had been missing and did more to break up the USSR than Gorbachov.

Sirena's clinic was in Buenos Aires. At that time there was a population imbalance in Argentina in favor of men. All that hot, Latino blood was glad to see her and by now you can imagine how glad she was to see it. Fortunately they had plenty of instructors. Sirena went through one a day and its debatable which one learned the most. Some of the lessons took though; enough for Sirena to develop a decent game, for a woman.

As with Loki, Zeus knew what he was about concerning Sirena's long game. It can well be imagined how distance will suffer if neither elbows nor wrists bend on the swing. If the course was short and the tee markers at the front she might get on the short three pars. But on the others she rarely made the green in par and then she still had to putt. Zeus's dominance was secure. Although Sirena's long game was short, she, like most old geezers and all women, hardly ever got in trouble. She did have this puzzling and seemingly uncontrollable habit of sitting at the down-hole side of every water hazard and singing in the direction of the following golfers. These ungolfly serenades brought repeated visits from the ever present and abrasive course marshal. No one could quite fathom (again, no pun intended) the meaning of this behavior at the time though most of them would experience it quite personally but unknowingly later on.

After the clinic ran out of instructors still able to function, Sirena left Buenos Aires for Atlanta with a few consorts for company; but their uninhibited partying on the plane caused the FAA to ground it in Miami. After removing the latins - they didn't really mind since most of the Anglos had left for the suburbs, Spanish was now the official language and they could live better on welfare than when working - Sirena made it to Atlanta a week early. If anything, the land of greasy food and rednecks was even more to her liking. By the time play was to begin she had gained eighteen pounds and tattoos in very private places and was wearing tight jeans, a t-shirt that said "FEEL EM AND SEE IF THEY ARE REAL" and a baseball cap.

Zeus, as will be remembered, was in a hurry. On his way to the airport he did see enough of the pathetic Russian existence to note that if there ever was a people that needed golf this was them and that if they ever got it he and the others would leave them alone.

As you might think, and probably would do yourself, the guy doing the planning would take care of himself. Zeus did this in spades. His lessons were to be in Palm Springs and his seedy Ruskie flight was only to get him to Paris where Air France took over for first class passage to LAX. A limo was waiting for the short drive to the desert paradise. On the way he noticed how the people had overpopulated and mistreated the area and especially the way they drove and made a mental note to add the golf misery saved from the Russians to that soon to be given to these people. They really deserved it.

Zeus took to golf like today's liberals take to whining. He needed only the least suggestion of what to do. The instructors quickly learned not to do more. They also quickly learned not to make comments about his name or beard. His wood and iron game became better than any club pro and as good as many of those prima donnas on the tour. When he went to the range to hit his daily fifteen hundred balls everyone would gather to watch. Zeus liked that.

He used a 56 inch, 8 degree, real wood driver and when he launched one it was the sweetest sound you ever heard. It looked like he barely swung but the ball left like a shot. It would go out about 250 yards at a shallow angle then soar upward and apparently drop almost straight down for a short roll and a total of 380 to 420 yards in the dry desert air. They would have gone 350 yards even in the soup of south Florida. Not only was Zeus long; he had the form of Snead and the perfection of Hogan all rolled into one.

It was beautiful to watch. Zeus was a natural's natural.

If anything, his iron game was even better. His chips, pitches, flops and sand shots were all under complete control. He could hit a pitching wedge 150 yards and the other irons were as good. He could work the ball left or right with any club and all his divots were the size and shape of a dollar bill. His golf was great. Zeus was ready for the course.

Or was he?

That day is still talked about in the bars and swanky housing developments in the shadow of Mount San Jacinto. The perpetual blue desert skies darkened with clouds like no one had every seen before - even worse than L.A. smog. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, the ground trembled, children ran and women screamed. Zeus went to the putting green.

He couldn't putt! That's all there was to it. Something was wrong in that mighty brain that caused him to have a permanent case of the yips. Imagine the scene with Zeus striding confidently to the practice green alongside, but always a little ahead, of his putting instructor and followed by his admiring entourage. They called themselves Zeus's Boosters after Arnie's Army which was well known at the time. They all knew Zeus would soon be on the tour and wanted to get in on the ground floor.

His form was flawless. The stroke set the ball rolling like it should. Everything was perfect except where the ball went. He would run uphill putts by as far as he was away to start with and downhill putts by twice the distance. He couldn't see break and he couldn't aim. It was heartbreaking to see his composure leaving - along with some of the Boosters. Zeus didn't take failure lightly and humility wasn't his long suit either. Several loud and vile outbursts of profanity dispersed the rest of the Boosters and Zeus and the instructor had it to themselves.

It didn't get any better. They tried different stances, hypnosis, larger holes and every putter they could find but to no avail. Zeus even had the club shop make the first chest putter. He said whether he could putt or not, at least he would have the longest one around. Zeus was indeed learning about humanity.

Zeus took his game to the course. Everything, including the putting and his reaction to it, was the same. From tee to green he could beat anybody, and did. He was on every par four in two and the shorter ones in one. The par fives were pushovers and he would just play with the par threes doing such things as hooking a four iron from over the lake and on to a postage stamp size green from 210 yards. But when the three to five putts were added, he was over par on too many holes. His mood was foul. The instructors offered bribes to management for other clients and then started calling in sick.

It was finally over. As Zeus stormed away from the eighteenth green after the last practice round he slammed his putter against a palm tree and roared loud enough even for the rest of his foursome fleeing across the parking lot to hear "I know what I'm gonna do to you miserable sons of b-----s".

He quickly checked out and went east to Georgia on an executive chartered flight.

THE GODS PLAY AND GET THEIR NAMES

The gods met at the Atlanta course as planned. They were glad to see each other after so much contact with their inferiors and, with the exception of "Dion", were anxious to show off their newly acquired skills.

Zeus had a busy schedule planned. They played all around the world following the good weather for low scores like the pro tours do. They did play one round in the bitter cold just to see what it was like and left San Francisco just ahead of the fruitcake and hippie invasion for Anchorage to warm up.

Zeus wanted his pantheon of the links to experience all types of shots and conditions of play and they did. Some of you older golfers might have seen them. If you had, you will surely remember. Their garish clothing was, if possible, even worse than the junk those French fairy designers come up with every year; but the noise they made was what really stuck in your mind. The cursing, singing, laughing and slurred entreaties for another drink was guaranteed to disrupt play for 300 yards in any direction and bring the marshal in for a visit. One visit is all though! Once Zeus got in his face, even the most hardened, ex-Marine DI course cop would leave looking for his car and weeping for his mama.

As their play progressed Zeus observed the others carefully. They observed him too of course but were too smart to say anything about his putting. The rest of his game was sufficiently praiseworthy and he always won and they were glad of it. Zeus was looking for specialists. He already had his and needed to round out the team.

Sirena's singing at the water hazards was a no-brainer. Her shipwrecking studies were now coming in handy as Zeus saw ball after ball go in the drink from the groups behind. Shots that either should have easily cleared and were hit fat or that should never have been attempted went for their last swim and Sirena smiled. The gods would frequently let the affected groups play through to see the results of Sirena's handiwork. The players would be glassy-eyed and stiff like the victims taken over by aliens in a grade B, Hollywood, scifi movie.

Sirena had found her calling and Zeus added Submergus to her name as a kind of final insult to her customers.

Loki could have been assigned to any number of dastardly duties. He fully understood the game and knew what hurt the most in any situation. As might be expected from his previous employment history, his inventiveness was his strong suit. He could get a lot of mileage out of the most mundane situation. Since sand traps aren't ordinarily all that difficult and needed his particular talents to be round-ruiners he got that job and the new name Santrapius to go with it.

As you might recall, Dionysus didn't learn much about playing golf in Scotland so he sort of hacked his way around the courses like many of the beginners you see holding up play on busy Saturday mornings at the local Muni. The only difference was that the marshal never made a second visit to the fab four.

Being a confirmed wino, Dion was usually in pursuit of a drink. Whenever he would go into the woods after his ball he would stay and stay - especially if close to a main highway, an overpass or some deserted buildings. It took the others a lot of time and the sudden resignation of more than one marshal to find out what was going on. It seems Dion had picked up on a few things after all. He had learned where his kind hung out and that, in a pinch, some Thunderbird or hair tonic could see him through the round. It had gotten so bad by the time his secret was discovered that he was kicking his ball into the thickets on purpose.

This behavior irritated Zeus. In fact, few things didn't irritate Zeus. He told Dion if he liked the damned trees and bushes so much that would be his job - to figure out ways for the shrubbery to screw up scores. He also told him to drop that stupid name Dion. Zeus had heard an applicable and totally negative term used in like situations and christened him to now be Treehooktus. The renamed god sensed he had somehow gained favor so he grinned and blurted out "I'll drink to that." but the others walked away.

Zeus had assigned duties and names to the other gods in rather unceremonious ways while they were playing. He was having none of that for himself though. At the end of their last round he invited the others to a private get-together that night in one of their hotel's small meeting rooms. After he promised to pick up the tab for a good meal and a fifth of Jack Daniels for Treehooktus they accepted. That night after eating and before breaking the seal on the sour mash he outlined their new careers.

Zeus said "I have decided that humans don't deserve to enjoy the great game of golf any longer. In the past it was a gentleman's sport played with dignity, consideration for everyone on the course and strict obedience to the rules. Remember when we saw Bobby Jones call that famous penalty on himself on the pool? People no longer do these things and they are damn well going to pay for it. They hit into slower groups, cheat on their scores, move their ball all over the place to get a better lie or to get out of trouble; they take mulligans, ignore penalty strokes and even leave chewing tobacco and sunflower seed hulls on the greens. From now on, anyone who breaks any of The Rules of Golf is fair game for us to artfully ruin his or her score on any hole or round. We will take care to do our deeds well but we are not to force too many of them out of the game and escape the punishment. If there is one thing I have learned about golf it is that the dummies always think the next round will be the start of a better game and I want them playing until they croak!"

Zeus had now set the ground rules. Anyone who cheats on any of those arbitrary rules - dreamed up for the most part by stuffy, snobbish old men in tweed who could no longer hit balls out of their own shadows much less into trouble, had funny accents and lived in a drafty old castle next to a boring golf course in Scotland - would be their fair game. Zeus wasn't taking much chance of harming an innocent was he? After all, how many golfers even know the rules much less observe them? Of those that do, almost all of them are on the pro tour. Is it nothing but a coincidence that where the rules are obeyed the lowest scores are recorded? Enough said about that.

The die was cast.

Zeus had set the stage. The moment had come. He banged on his water glass and stood up to make his big announcement. He shuffled a little with his head down in mock humility like he had seen mortals do when complimented on something they know they are good at and spoke. "I know you all have been wondering and I want you to know that my specialty is going to be to make them miss putts and my new name is to be Triputtus". He looked up expectantly for the congratulations he knew would be coming on his cutesy and self-effacing new name but they hadn't heard a word. Instead, he was greeted with the disgusting spectacle of Sirena and Santrapius groping each other like performers in a New Orleans French Quarter sex show and Treehooktus clawing at the Jack Daniels cork. Triputtus's countenance changed instantly and the other gods sensed it, quit what they were doing and started cheering and clapping. Their timing was bad. Triputtus wasn't impressed and thundered "It's time to go." and had Fordius beam them back to the temple so fast that Treehooktus had to chugalug the Jack.

Triputtus was glad to be back home where he was recognized as the big dog. Sirena and Santrapius were frustrated but made up for it in the welcome home orgy. Treehooktus had the dry heaves from the whiskey and the hotel had to eat the bill.

THE GODS BACK HOME AND OPEN FOR BUSINESS

Overus and Chargus had busted the budget for remodeling the temple but had done a good job. Triputtus gave them the chance to pad the price even more by issuing a change order to put some rocks in the end of the pool for Sirena. After all the dirt and sand had settled, it still had a pretty good picture. They got back into their old duds and Triputtus naturally came up with an arrangement that let him have the best view. They cut the ribbon in 1960 and have been on the job ever since.

As you probably noticed, Triputtus assigned responsibilities like a shrewd sales manager assigns territories. There was little chance of one god interfering with another so the squabbling that might have caused was avoided. Triputtus could have saved his concern though, for the only choices were whether a particular shot should go in the sand, sink into the water or go behind a tree. Triputtus wasn't involved till it got on the green. Treehooktus didn't seem to care about much of anything but the grog and since Sirena and Santrapius have this rather sickening romance going and try to please each other, there is little internal friction.

Gods have been working people over for a long time. Many thoughtful individuals such as Aristotle, Newton, Einstein and The Three Stooges have wondered how, with so many people to attend to, they could get around to all of them. All the gods have this capability but Triputtus, wanting to appear somehow different and better, put a special name to their's. He called it GOLF GOD STANDARD ROUND-RUINING TIME or GGSRRT for short and here's how it works.

For mortals, the time it takes to find the best place within 40 feet to improve their lie after a shot, analyze and picture the next shot, take several practice swings with very large and unreplaced divots, make a few optimistic comments to their cart partner then take the next shot, takes from one to three minutes depending on score, temperature and how bad they have to pee. That time is then compressed to maybe a zillionth of a second in the pool receiver; and since time doesn't count for immortals, the golf gods keep the playback at normal speed and leisurely switch from player to player all over the world, real time, 24-7 and never miss an opportunity.

The Gods of Golf are out to get you; that's their job, they know how and they are serious about it. They are mean and give no quarter. You knew something was wrong with your game but you just couldn't practice or, much more likely, play your way out of it. Now you know where the blame really lies for most of your bad shots and scores. You aren't responsible! Your game is as good as you thought it was. In fact if it weren't for the gods and that you accidentally break one of the rules occasionally, you might be on the tour.

You now know which way the wind is blowing. They say that being forewarned is to be forearmed. Consider yourself that and if you take up the game or don't quit it you have nobody to blame but yourself. Maybe your skull is thicker than most and you need more input. Let's look at a rundown on the gods after a few decades of practice. If you still want to play after that, you probably would also enjoy living on the ground floor of a tenement without a lock on the door in the South Bronx or playing at St. Andrews in January.

THE GODS AT WORK

SIRENA SUBMERGUSTM is her name and sinking golf balls is her game. She comes by it naturally as she was one of the sisters that became the Sirens. They would sing to passing sailors till their ships crashed into the rocks. She was the runt of the litter and while she didn't have the looks to make the cut she does have the voice. The fact that she is a borderline nymphomaniac adds that little extra attraction to her song.

Any time that a golfer, especially a man, approaches a water hazard she has chosen, she starts singing. It's heard in the subconscious of the targeted player. If the hazard is down the left or right side the song says no problem, you never hook (or slice). If its right in front of the tees and so narrow that a three hundred pound, left-handed midget who just took up the game and has a terrible reverse pivot could clear it, Sirena's song says, don't even consider the creek, just start thinking about the next shot. If the lake is so far away and so wide that not one player on a Ryder Cup Team would even consider going for it; the voice seductively sings that it plays a lot shorter than the yardage and this is the shot that will beat that blowhard you have drawn to play against.

Now here is what has upwards of a 99.9% chance of happening (Sirena is good but she isn't perfect). You will hit a hook off of that fade set-up (or vice versa) that lands just short of the water on an incline that should send it back to the fairway but, hope dashed, it hits a rock and bounces uphill, over the levee and then you know where - OR - because you are concentrating on the next shot you don't stay down and top the ball so it dribbles into the water just in front of the red tee - OR - you go for broke over the lake and hit the most powerful shot of your life. The ball goes low and strong and you start visualizing being on that par five with a short second shot. But no, it's starting to drop and isn't going to make it. You are devastated. Hold on, there is still hope; the ball is now skipping across the water! One skip. Two skips. Uh-oh, the skips are getting closer together now. The fifth anemic little skip gets within four feet of the far side, sinks out of sight and the shot has to be repeated with a penalty stroke and a lot less confidence.

If you play the game, you have already been tempted by Sirena and it will continue. If you start playing, you will be. There is no use trying to resist. Just be sure to count the penalty strokes when it happens or you will make her mad and then things will really get rough.

In the painting, Sirena is primping and admiring what she thinks she looks like in the mirror. Her current paramour, Santrapius, is on stage now but she will get plenty of work later on. In the mean time she is patient and comfortable on her rock and her abundant, natural cushioning.

TRIPUTTUSTM, being the majordomo of the golf gods, has a chair to match. He doesn't stand up for anybody, much less a hapless golfer. At present he doesn't have a victim in his sights so he is contenting himself by analyzing the players so he can crush the spirit out of the one who he decides deserves it the most. Triputtus knows all about bad things on the green because that's all he ever did. Let's look at a few of his favorites.

• The better the player the more likely the three putt at the crucial time.
• Very little is more satisfying to him than a four putt to a really good player who was two strokes ahead going to the eighteenth.
• The 8 foot severely uphill rim-out that rolls back to, then past, the player to the fringe.
• The knee-knocker for the win that covers at least one third of the hole and goes across on the windowpane bridge.
• The down-hiller that goes 20 feet beyond and the 15 foot come-backer.

This kind of treatment is what you are in for my friend, if you pursue this game. Triputtus could care less how good a person you are. You could have a family, give to charities and even live in an integrated neighborhood. You'll get about as much sympathy from him as the marshal on a crowded resort course in Mississippi would give to a slow playing group of loud, middle aged women from Detroit. Triputtus would make an ultra-conservative talk show host look like a compassionate bleeding heart.

Triputtus posed for the painting in his best toga and tunic and the long putter he brought back from Palm Springs has replaced his traditional, now roach befouled, scepter. He wants it close to him as a constant reminder of his handicap. He says it keeps him in the right frame of mind.

SANTRAPIUSTM is the type who would hand out Ex-Lax in candy wrappers to kids at Halloween and laugh while doing it. He has even considered something involving Triputtus's new scepter but fortunately managed to control himself. That's what kind of god he is and he can't help himself. Like Sirena, it's in his genes. Maybe that's why they get along so well.

Santrapius has no end of terrible trap tricks. Here are some he uses frequently.

• He can repeal the laws of physics and bounce any shot into a trap. A duck hook can even go back the other way.
• Fried eggs with 40 yards to go are common.
• Two fat blasts from good lies and the ball isn't out yet.
• Bladed screamers that plug in the front face under an overhanging lip.
• Lies that are in the end of the bunker and are downhill toward the hole and you have to stand on the grass so high above the ball that your grip also involves your shoelaces.
• Blasts that are picked clean and land on the next tee.
• The best drive of your life is in a fairway bunker so far up on the side slope that your only stance looks like it belongs beside home plate instead.
• Footprints are his specialty and these are his two favorites. The ball in the heel of a single deep one 8 feet from any edge and the rest of the trap is raked smooth. And the ball in the bottom of one of a trail of deer tracks the diameter and depth of a shot glass and you watched the deer make them before you made the approach.

What he will do to you in the traps is guaranteed to keep your scores up. Go ahead and practice those easy sand shots at the range till you could pass for Gary Player. It'll do you no good. When Santrapius climbs on your shoulders its all over. Read on.

Here's what Santrapius has going in the painting and its one of his masterpieces. It's a 140 yard par three with trouble everywhere. It's also the third hole of a sudden death playoff in the last pro-am of the year and the winner can join the tour. The clean cut, young man on the tee now learned his game on the weekends while attending divinity school; he is handsome, married with one year old triplets and has a blind wife. He came to the tournament from his job as the beloved pastor at a nursing home on the last of the money from his retired daddy's cashed-out IRA. He is loved by everyone and is playing against an ambulance chasing trial lawyer who is also the biggest jerk to ever pick up a golf club.

Our boy decides to play from the grass to make sure the ball stops where it lands; and after helping his arthritic mother find a good place toward the front of the gallery and a fervent prayer for all mankind he lets fly with his nine iron.

He hits it perfectly! It hisses away from the tee spinning at least 6000 RPM's and dead on the flag. His expectations soar and visions of number 12 at Augusta go through his now unburdened mind. The jerk is gritting his teeth and hoping for a following wind gust.

Hallelujah! It drops not two feet left of the hole. The deserving and lovable future star gives thanks and now imagines someone holding open an ugly green blazer for him to put on. The jerk loses his temper and punches his own caddie in the nose.

But wait. Something is happening on the green. The ball spins for a moment in the cavernous mark like one of the slicks on an unlimited dragster at the green light and sucks back big time! It rolls off the green, through the fringe and into the trap, coming to rest in a deep rake mark at the base of the three-foot vertical front face. In the painting you can see and probably empathize with the poor guy's reaction.

Our hero will take two to get on the green and two more to get down for a five. The jerk will hook his tee shot and miss rolling in the water by an inch. He'll chip on and take two putts for a bogey. He will get his card and go on to win the Masters; and since he is also a gay minority he becomes the double darling of the media and their ad nauseam promotion enables him to be the first "sports figure" to make a billion dollars in endorsement contracts. The nice guy will contemplate suicide but will give up golf and his job at the nursing home and go to work as a Wal-Mart greeter to earn more money. Santrapius is in stitches.

Why did Santrapius do this terrible thing? Wouldn't it have been "the right thing to do" to have made the jerk lose instead? Of course it would have – to most of humanity – but we are talking about the golf gods here. Saying they are bad is like saying coal isn't white and they delight in the unjust. Our worthy had only one rule infraction on his record and they had to look twice to find it.

Back when he was in his junior year at school he was squeezing in a round between coaching the golf team at an orphanage and attending his beloved grandmother's funeral when he hooked his ball under a tree with low hanging limbs. The bad lie forced him to swing while on his knees and not wanting to stain the only good pair of pants he owned, he knelt on his towel. That's a damned rule infraction! It's interpreted as building a stance and has been called in professional play before. Can you imagine that? I suppose either that tweed doesn't show grass stains or the Scottish rule makers have never discovered towels. No matter, that's all it took for Santrapius to justify nailing the poor soul to the wall. We understand he got an attaboy and a day off from the big guy for that one.

TREEHOOKTUSTM has degenerated over the centuries from the genteel and expert vintner and distiller for the gods to little more than a common sot. The gods have been forced to order their liquor online from a Jewish wholesaler in Stockholm. The hard stuff is watered now and then but the beer is usually still cold. Treehooktus, for his part, has long since quit being concerned about quality.

Sirena can't stand him and insisted that he be put on the other end of the pool. He had to be next to one of them and it worked out for the best since he is convenient to Santrapius's surplus trickery. Typical of this is hiding his booze or putting water in his bottles instead of the real stuff. True, this isn't very imaginative but his pathetic pleadings and expressions are worth waiting in line for. Triputtus has considered replacing him but can't bring himself to admit to the others that he made a mistake.

Although he became a golf god by accident and never really learned to play, Treehooktus nevertheless does have a place on the team. Causing a ball to come to rest behind a tree isn't exactly rocket science and what it accomplishes on the scorecard did manage to seep into his pickled brain after about twenty rounds. Fortunately for players the world over, Treehooktus is exactly like human winos in that he can't be depended on for anything. If he has just gotten out of bed and hasn't had time to go too far over the hill he can do a creditable job. His alcohol dulled imagination isn't much though and he tends to do pretty much these same things over and over.

• Fades into the woods off of draw set-ups and vice versa.
• Balls straighter and longer than you have ever hit when woods are lining the far side of the dogleg.
• Balls against tree trunks such that the only swing is wrong handed with a toe down club. Nobody can make that shot.
• Trees that you know you can get over but the top twig stops the ball cold and it falls in tall grass.
• Solidly struck trees that always ricochet the ball into trouble.
• Stopping the ball twenty feet behind the only tree between you and the hole but allowing room for a low draw or fade to the green. Your draw will slice out of bounds or the fade will turn into the longest pull you ever saw and at least two fairways over.

As the day wears on, Treehooktus usually gets so tight he starts losing his concentration. You can use this knowledge to your advantage. Plan your morning rounds for treeless courses or at least let your course management be a little more conservative as far as arboreal temptation is concerned. In the afternoons you can go for broke and get away with it. Shoot it right through the crown - its mostly sky anyway - and cut across the dogleg. These will be your very few chances to screw one of the gods of golf and they are too satisfying to pass up.

Treehooktus is shown in his normal late afternoon jaundiced condition. He usually doesn't look this bad but he has just been through the mill of one of Santrapius's better intragodly tricks.

They ran into each other the night before at a bar just down from the temple. Treehooktus was complaining about one of his sandals coming loose. Santrapius saw opportunity and said he would get it fixed for him. After they got it off, Santrapius left and was just about to throw the sandal in the trash and go home when he ran into Mercury returning from merger talks with Fordius and had a better idea. He told Mercury what he was up to and swapped Treehooktus's sandal for one of Mercury's. Mercury knew all about Treehooktus and waited around to watch the show. His sandals are his source of speed and they are hard to control without experience. He wanted to make sure things didn't get out of hand.

Santrapius went back in the bar with the super sandal. It was dark inside and Treehooktus wasn't really able so he let Santrapius put it on for him and didn't notice the wings. After a couple more shots it was time to go. Triputtus had told him that if he wasn't on the job the next morning for the last round of that pro-am tournament he would have to dry out for a month.

What followed defies adequate description!

Treehooktus took an uncertain step with his sandal then four quick and unplanned steps with the super sandal. He made a complete circle and stopped! His red eyes were wide with concern but his brain said everything is OK, go ahead; the room is spinning a little more than usual, that's all. He did go ahead. Another step, another revolution and this time even faster and he couldn't stop. He had lost control and was moving and spinning like a drunken tornado or the cartoon version of the Tasmanian Devil. The gyroscopic effect of his spinning stabilized his wobbly condition and kept him upright. The centrifugal force made his toga skirt fly out along with other things and would have drawn a crowd in New York City. He spun against the walls, other gods and out into the street. He caught sight of the temple and steered for the steps. On the way he tripped over the curb and fell down but the spinning continued. He started going around on the cobblestones like a single bladed propeller. Fearing damage, to his speed not the godly propeller, Mercury called in his sandal and Treehooktus coasted to a bumpy stop. He had sobered up quite a bit during the trip and after some confused thought concluded he must have gotten hold of some bad hooch but heard Santrapius howling and knew he'd been had.

The surroundings were familiar but he was in no condition to walk. He had to get out of sight so he crawled up the steps and into the temple. On the way by the pool he reached in and retrieved some cheap sherry that Santrapius hadn't found and climbed into his chair. The rest you can see.

THE ONLY WAY TO BEAT THE GODS

If you play, surely by now you realize that the fearsome foursome has been wrecking your game all along. It ain't about to stop either unless you are prepared to make a major attitude adjustment. This may be the hardest thing you ever tried to do; maybe even harder than hitting a one iron out of tall grass. If you have never played and are considering spending the small fortune it takes to buy a swing and play nowadays; you don't already have an attitude so your chances are about one per cent better – like hitting that one iron off of a good lie.

The gods see and hear everything on the pool. They know when you get pissed and it only encourages them. What must be done is to fool them into thinking you are such a good sport that you don't care how badly you play.

I told you it was going to be hard!

To see how it works, consider this hypothetical situation. You have been practicing hard all summer and finally managed to control that slice and your putting has never been better. You are playing your home course and know it like your wife's hourly mood swings. You have never broken 80 but today you are burning up the course and are at 72 after seventeen with an easy par four for a finisher. The gods, of course, heard you blabbing about all this to the guys you are playing with; so here's what they do to you on that last crucial hole.

The only hook you have ever hit in your life catches the outermost pinecone on the only tree around and falls in light rough 80 yards from the tee. The inevitable, but beautiful, recovery three wood shot lands on a sprinkler head at the front edge of the green and bounces 60 feet over into a waste area. The ensuing flop is bladed into the only bunker on the hole and it takes two more to get on. Triputtus is beside himself with this opportunity and gleefully closes the door on the 79 with his namesake for a snowman.

What would have been your normal reactions to all this? You probably could have tolerated the pinecone. After all, you still had six strokes to burn. The three wood bounce would have gotten your attention though and the blade into the trap would have destroyed what little confidence you had left and also silenced your buddies' supportive chatter. The two sand shots would have brought streams of profanity and probably a thrown club but the soul robbing response to the second missed putt can only be imagined by those who have been there; and was made even worse by the clumsy consolations from the other three chumps who are secretly glad you blew it because you are such a sore loser.

On the other hand, if you had kept your mouth shut and a smile on your face, the gods would have gotten off your back probably after the blade into the trap. They would have figured you for a near scratch golfer whose round was now thoroughly ruined and switched the pool, and their attentions, over to some other poor schmuck.

Are you capable of this much change? Few are but those few are the best players. How many pros bitch out loud, cry and throw clubs? Not many that win and they also play by the rules. You certainly aren't going to go that far so fooling them is your only hope for good scores. Just think how rotten Triputtus would have felt if you had two putted and run around the green, like a pro showoff after winning a tournament, screaming that you finally broke 80!

Wouldn't that be double sweet?

Good luck and I hope you have it in you. I tried to fool them myself as an experiment not long ago and I could only stand the stress and hypocrisy for three holes. The one iron doesn't seem all that hard to hit after that experience.