Golf Columnist WR Marshall: Course Nazi (7/16/08
http://www.golftribune.com/articles/583/1/Golf-Columnist-WR-Marshall-Course-Nazi-71608/Page1.html
WR Marshall
WR Marshall is a syndicated golf columnist based Charleston, S.C.
By WR Marshall
Published on 07/16/2008
Rangers, the last bastion of the true amateur. They don’t get paid, they have little or no training, most of the time they don’t even get a shirt. They’re the men and women who have a love of the game and a lot of free time. They cruise the links and keep the game running smoothly…when they’re not driving real slow along the rough looking for lost Pro V1s.
Rangers, the last bastion of the true amateur. They don’t get paid, they have little or no training, most of the time they don’t even get a shirt. They’re the men and women who have a love of the game and a lot of free time. They cruise the links and keep the game running smoothly…when they’re not driving real slow along the rough looking for lost Pro V1s. Rangers, the last bastion of the true amateur. They don’t get paid, they have little or no training, most of the time they don’t even get a shirt. They’re the men and women who have a love of the game and a lot of free time. They cruise the links and keep the game running smoothly…when they’re not driving real slow along the rough looking for lost Pro V1’s.
I was even a ranger once…it’s all about the free golf.
During my brief inscription I think I only had to admonish one group, and they were trying to pop wheelies on the fourth green.
Most of the time, I (and as I’ve observed, most of my fellow rangers across the nation) make the occasional loop around the golf course, and if no one is grazing a horse or skinny dipping in a water hazard, we merrily go on our way.
After all, golf is, if nothing else, a game of manners played by people of a certain integrity, who don’t need a referee or a time keeper, or, frankly, even a score keeper. We don’t even need a brother’s keeper. So rangers, by and large, are a nicety. A nicety that cuts both ways. It gives those of us on the course someone to tip our beer at they drive by, and it gives the person driving by a free round, during which they can tip their beer at someone else.
The point is, rangers are generally congenial folk who smile and wave and look forward to their tee-times.
But once in a while you run into someone who is just a little pissed off they didn’t get a uniform with the job.
The other day, at my local Muni, Hans was the starter. (No, Hans isn’t his real name, he just wishes it was, and if not Hans, perhaps Gunner, or Wolfgang…something Teutonic.)
Things were running smoothly under Han’s watchful eye – we were only backed up four times as badly as usual, and I was stepping on the tee box for my 3:20pm tee time at 4:00pm. (So much for getting the trains to run on time.)
My playing partner and I put our bags next to the tee-box, grabbed and club and…
“HALT! HALT! WAS TUN SIE!?” Hans shouted. (Even if Han’s didn’t shout it sounds like shouting.)
“I’m about to tee off,” I said, looking down the fairway and seeing the group ahead of me was well out of my two hundred yard range. (No, I’m not bragging; the wind was coming from behind us.)
“WARUM IST IHR BEUTEL DORT?”
“Because I always put my bag next to the tee box.”
“NICHT HEUTE!”
“What do you mean, ‘not today’? It’s golf, Hans. The clubs are in the bag, and the bag goes with me.”
“SIND SIE MIR ERKLÄREND, WIE MAN GOLF SPIELT. ICH HABE MEHR GOLF SIE GESPIELT, DIE SIE HEISSE ZU MITTAG GEGESSEN HABEN!”
“Hans, I’m not telling you anything, and I’m sure you’ve eaten a lot of hot lunches – can I just tee off.”
“NACH IHNEN VERSCHIEBEN SIE IHREN BEUTEL!”
“Move my bag where?”
“DORT!”
My partner, who was visiting from out of town, was terrified. He moved his bag and stood at attention next to it. But I’ve been playing this course for years and I’m too old to stand at attention.
“Hans, I’m not putting my bag on the cart path. I don’t have a cart, I’m walkin’.”
“VERSCHIEBEN SIE ES, JETZT!”
“Tell you what, Hans. I’m gonna tee off now.”
And I did, then picked up my unmoved bag, and took off down the fairway, looking over my shoulder at Hans who was furiously scribbling something on the starter’s sheet. When he was finished he glared at me and shook his fist:
“VE VILL BE VATCHING YOU…”
I was even a ranger once…it’s all about the free golf.
During my brief inscription I think I only had to admonish one group, and they were trying to pop wheelies on the fourth green.
Most of the time, I (and as I’ve observed, most of my fellow rangers across the nation) make the occasional loop around the golf course, and if no one is grazing a horse or skinny dipping in a water hazard, we merrily go on our way.
After all, golf is, if nothing else, a game of manners played by people of a certain integrity, who don’t need a referee or a time keeper, or, frankly, even a score keeper. We don’t even need a brother’s keeper. So rangers, by and large, are a nicety. A nicety that cuts both ways. It gives those of us on the course someone to tip our beer at they drive by, and it gives the person driving by a free round, during which they can tip their beer at someone else.
The point is, rangers are generally congenial folk who smile and wave and look forward to their tee-times.
But once in a while you run into someone who is just a little pissed off they didn’t get a uniform with the job.
The other day, at my local Muni, Hans was the starter. (No, Hans isn’t his real name, he just wishes it was, and if not Hans, perhaps Gunner, or Wolfgang…something Teutonic.)
Things were running smoothly under Han’s watchful eye – we were only backed up four times as badly as usual, and I was stepping on the tee box for my 3:20pm tee time at 4:00pm. (So much for getting the trains to run on time.)
My playing partner and I put our bags next to the tee-box, grabbed and club and…
“HALT! HALT! WAS TUN SIE!?” Hans shouted. (Even if Han’s didn’t shout it sounds like shouting.)
“I’m about to tee off,” I said, looking down the fairway and seeing the group ahead of me was well out of my two hundred yard range. (No, I’m not bragging; the wind was coming from behind us.)
“WARUM IST IHR BEUTEL DORT?”
“Because I always put my bag next to the tee box.”
“NICHT HEUTE!”
“What do you mean, ‘not today’? It’s golf, Hans. The clubs are in the bag, and the bag goes with me.”
“SIND SIE MIR ERKLÄREND, WIE MAN GOLF SPIELT. ICH HABE MEHR GOLF SIE GESPIELT, DIE SIE HEISSE ZU MITTAG GEGESSEN HABEN!”
“Hans, I’m not telling you anything, and I’m sure you’ve eaten a lot of hot lunches – can I just tee off.”
“NACH IHNEN VERSCHIEBEN SIE IHREN BEUTEL!”
“Move my bag where?”
“DORT!”
My partner, who was visiting from out of town, was terrified. He moved his bag and stood at attention next to it. But I’ve been playing this course for years and I’m too old to stand at attention.
“Hans, I’m not putting my bag on the cart path. I don’t have a cart, I’m walkin’.”
“VERSCHIEBEN SIE ES, JETZT!”
“Tell you what, Hans. I’m gonna tee off now.”
And I did, then picked up my unmoved bag, and took off down the fairway, looking over my shoulder at Hans who was furiously scribbling something on the starter’s sheet. When he was finished he glared at me and shook his fist:
“VE VILL BE VATCHING YOU…”