Feature: Searching
For A Cure For Bozoitis
By Jeffrey A.
Rendall, TravelGolf.com Staff Writer
I've got a disease. I admit it. I'm afflicted with bozoitis--I'm
terrified of bozos.
A bozo is a golfer you don't know. It could be anyone. He's a
golfer, who through his method of playing, mannerisms, or personality--bugs
the stuffing out of you and makes you want to go home, lest you
have to tolerate him for the rest of the round. I'll readily admit
that most unknown golfers that you are asked to play alongside are
not bozos, but everyone standing around you at the starter's hut
has the potential to be one.
Some players are immune to the disease--they would rather have
any warm body to play alongside rather than face the prospect of
going it alone. Not me. I'd much prefer having the ability to concentrate
on my round and play quickly rather than feel I'm stuck with someone's
bad habits and excessive personality for an afternoon.
One particular day this summer is a good example of how the disease
affects me. I got off early one Friday at work, and decided to make
the best of the free time by playing a round at one of my favorite
local courses. I didn't have a tee time, but I figured it would
be no problem--as long as I could get there before the twilight
rate started. In addition to the immediate problem of getting a
complete round in, being post twilight would bring up other potential
undesirable circumstances--bozos.
I knew the twilight rate started at three. Three o'clock would
bring the rush of those golf bargain hunters looking to save some
dough by waiting to play in the heat of the day, and willing to
rush on the last three holes in the gathering dark in order to complete
the round. I reasoned that if I got to the course with a half hour
to spare at 2:30, I could probably get right on as a single, and
not be subjected to the torture of playing a round with a bozo--or,
even worse, several bozos.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not a loner, and golf is a social game,
it's true. Playing the game with your favorite partners can be the
best times in life. But coordinating the outing to be bozo-proof
in the days of busy schedules and deadlines is difficult. It is
inevitable that you're going to face a situation where there aren't
four of you. Or three. Or even two. It's elementary math to see
that the probability of being paired with a bozo increases with
every playing partner you're missing.
In my 20 years of playing the game, I've probably only played
with a dozen bozos.
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In my 20 years of playing the game, I've probably only played with
a dozen bozos; but the worst of my bozo experiences of the past has
left me with an intense desire to avoid them--to the extent of choosing
not to play rather than be forced to endure them for even four or
five hours. My bozoitis is real.
On the day in question, when I arrived at the course, I noticed
a number of golfers waiting on the first tee. That's a bad sign.
Those of us looking to avoid bozos like to see empty tee boxes,
fairways, and greens. Still, I thought that the semi-empty parking
lot might mean a chance to squeeze in between the current group
and the upcoming rush.
The pro shop dispelled my optimism. The guy behind the counter
said "Take the receipt to the starter--I think he'll probably
want to send you out with the twosome that just left." A chill
went down my spine. Now was my chance--should I just tell the counter
guy to forget the whole thing? Or should I take the chance that
these two would be relatively normal?
Helping to resist the strong urge to wimp out was the fact I had
just bought a new driver that I was dying to try out on something
other than the range. I decided to chance it. I bravely walked out
the door and up to the starter. Handing him the slip, I said "How's
it look out there today?"
"Slow pace, for a Friday."
Great. This was going to be even worse than I thought. Not only
was I going to be stuck with a couple of potential bozos, I was
actually going to be forced to talk with them while waiting at each
tee. I sized up the twosome that the counter guy had referred to.
Both were in their twenties, looked fairly athletic, and were clearly
good friends. Already I felt like I'd be a third wheel on the bozo
motorcycle. At least if I was going to have to join up with someone,
I'd rather have him be in my situation--alone and terrified of everyone
else. Besides, these guys looked like good golfers.
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Being a mid-handicapper, I like to play with those of a like ability.
Good golfers, bozo or not, don't appreciate my need to look for the
occasional wayward ball or to savor a good fat shot. Really bad golfers
are probably worse. To others, I might very well be their idea of
a bozo. But others' feelings weren't of primary importance to me at
this moment. I just wanted to have a good round.
Just as I was ready to introduce myself, another twosome drove
up to join the guys I thought I was stuck with. The starter asked
each group what their respective tee times were, and the two of
them just happened to match. 'Whew!' I thought. That was a close
one! But then the starter scared me--he said "You're probably
going to have to wait a while. I want to make sure that we have
full groups going off--it looks like it's going to get busy here
in the next few minutes."
Sure enough, a cursory perusing of the parking lot revealed a
number of folks putting on their shoes, readying themselves for
a trip around the links. Now it was certain that I was going to
have to go out with somebody--the luck of the draw. I soon began
to size up the people surrounding the starter's hut in ever increasing
numbers. But even to a discerning eye, a bozo is hard to spot. And,
even if you could spot one, there's not much you can do about it.
Fifteen minutes went by, and a few groups came and went. I struck
up a nice conversation with a man and his wife--also waiting their
turn without a tee time. Both seemed nice; I hoped that since they
were in a similar situation that I might end up with them, and avoid
the bozo problem altogether. But they were soon called. There I
continued to loiter, sizing up everyone as they came along.
Already I felt like I'd be a third wheel on the bozo motorcycle.
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Most of the groups had two or four. I was just about to give up and
head home when I noticed another apparent single sitting in a golf
cart. He looked harmless enough--somewhat heavyset, but not fat. Dressed
rather plainly. Your average ordinary Joe. And that was his name,
as I found out later. I didn't try talking with him--I didn't want
to get too attached to anyone else after the husband and wife team--lest
they be called away again by the starter, leaving me to scrutinize
the rest of those waiting to see who I'd be subjected to.
The starter then called my name, and pointed to the guy in the
cart. He said "You'll be joining this man here." Swell.
I extended my hand in introduction and placed my bag on the back
of his cart--hoping against hope that this unspectacular looking
man would turn out to be a good guy. Certainly there was nothing
about the initial meeting that was a symptom of bozoitis--lots of
chest hair, gold chains, or chain smoking. And he didn't boast of
playing with pros or celebrities. Feeling strange but somewhat relieved,
we drove to the first tee, where another twosome was waiting. Having
gone through one round of bozo screening, I had to do it again with
these two.
One looked like Ernie Els--that's all I noted about him. The other
introduced himself, and said he was from Missouri. Each of my playing
partners seemed like normal human beings, and had no outward bozo
characteristics. Maybe this was going to turn out alright after
all. We all teed off, and none of us hit the fairway. I felt relieved
that it looked like it would be okay to play my normal game!
Thankfully, none of my playing partners that day turned out to
be bozos. All of them, like me, were just average guys out to have
some fun and knock the ball around. But that won't stop me from
sizing up the next group that I'm thrown in with. And it certainly
didn't mark the end of the bozos--one guy that played behind us
that day had a problem getting any words out in between his four
letter oaths. What a bozo.
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