Botch Volleyball

 

 

    I have a bold statement to make about my athletic skills. When it comes to playing a game of catch with a football or baseball, I am not a liability.

Now, when it comes to actually playing sports, not just slingin’ a ball back and forth Field of Dreams style, I have some bad news.

My career in youth league sports was a mixed bag of both failure and  disappointment. Now, I did run for three touchdowns in an eight-game season in fifth grade, but aside from that, my statlines were shitty. Other than the intangibles, like acute anxiety and intrusive thoughts of getting booed by my dad, I didn’t have much to offer. For the most part, I can function alright with some OCD quirks, but I like having personal space, so slamming against random dude-bodies in a blur of motion is the opposite of comfort for me. My comfort zone is a bit of a diva. 

Plus, I’m five-foot-eight and I weigh a buck-thirty-five. I’d love to hit a baseball 500 feet or windmill dunk on you, but that ain’t happening. In the case of athletes, I admire what I am not.  

Having said all this, how did I ever rise the ranks to become a one-time sub on a bar league volleyball team? And how did I ensure that this challenge to my comfort zone was going to be a disaster? 

Well, back in the summer of 2011, I was part of a big group of friends. Before folks in the tribe got married or divorced, had kids or moved away, and before I just got older and weirder, we all used to meet up a lot. One ideal spot to hang out was The Shop, which was shorthand for the worksite of my friend Cal’s family-owned painting business. Doors, cabinets, and dressers get painted at The Shop, and an abundance of tools, supplies, and paint buckets are stored within the spacious building. More importantly, for hangout purposes, a plot of land the size of a football field sprawled out behind The Shop. At the center of the finely mowed field, we set up a volleyball net.

Several times that summer, as many as a dozen of us met up at The Shop. We brought coolers of refreshments, slapped burger patties on the grill, cranked up some tunes, shot the shit, and sometimes even managed to play volleyball. 

During games, my beercan was my faithful spectator sitting in the grass a few steps out of bounds. I’d walk across the line to enjoy a sip while the others debated what the score was. Between games I’d light up a Camel Blue and try to make someone laugh. Hypothetically, I might have tried a little something that’s now legal in half the States and rhymes with “dot” and “parijuana.” This is what I associated with volleyball. Not super proud of that, but in my 20s I had a lot of shitheadedness to get out of my system, and I had a lot of fun. At 40, I know that fun could have led to tragedy and trauma. I was lucky. 

As the weeks went by, I became decent at thumping the ball over the net or setting up a tall asshole who could spike it. I later learned that I volleyballed with inherent fundamental flaws, but the beautiful thing was that no one at The Shop cared. Even better, I did comedy bits. My favorite routine was the Trash Talker, which I did with my friend Ian. 

 

“Ian, you best get ready for some trash talk.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yyyup. Nick is my name and trash talking is my game.”

“Whoa! Easy, man.” 

“Hey Ian, knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“The world’s greatest trash talker, that’s who.” 

“Ouch!” 

“I tried to warn ya. You know your Mama asked me to stop talking trash? And I respectfully declined.” 

“No! That’s just mean.” 

I’d laugh a lot, enjoy conversations, get some exercise and a nice buzz, then ride my bike home, sticking to the sidewalk, basking in the quiet breeze of summer in slow motion. For almost a whole summer, I thought volleyball was pretty great. 

Then in mid-August, I got a text from Cal. That Thursday night, his volleyball team was shorthanded. They’d have to forfeit their game at a bar called The Press Box if they couldn’t find a sub. And no, he added, I wasn’t their first choice, and yes, they were desperate. 

I was flattered. V-ball on a weekday? Whoa, I was moving up in the world. I didn’t even know myself anymore, and I wanted to excitedly embrace this stranger.

Cal was like, “So… that’s a yes?” 

He and his wife Ophelia picked me up at 6:30. I was cheerful, unaware that I was on my way to botch volleyball. What’s worse, I didn’t exactly set myself up for success. As we drove to the bar, I accepted a sample of something that rhymes with “deed” and “banabis.” I’ve since learned that this choice does not help my anxiety in busy public settings, but at the time I was collecting data for that rather long experiment. 

So, my mind was swarming more so than soothed as we entered the Press Box. We met up with our teammates. The place was packed. I felt claustrophobic, and yet I wanted a beer, so I did that awful squirm-move to fit between two frowning barflies on stools. I had the nervous face of a man the bartender will always serve last. Mercifully, I got my beer, my sad lil’ pacifier. I turned around and cringed as a Luke Bryan song blared on the jukebox. I hate to shout to be heard, so my social skills went to hell. V-ball was off to a rough start.

Our group moved to the sand volleyball court, where the open space gave me relief. I looked through the net and didn’t recognize anyone on the other team. I’m a lot more shy around strangers, so that meant I’d be having no fun doing the Trash Talker bit. Dammit. 

There was also a referee perched in one of those tall, high-and-mighty stands. That was different from The Shop too. The ref was a thin blonde in a baggy Wisconsin Badgers sweatshirt. She wore a stone-faced expression, and with my stoned brain, I had visions of Medusa turning a man into rock. I even waved at her with a bashful half-smile, like “I get that you’re more than a judge, you’re a human being too,” to no avail. Judges gotta judge; they don’t gotta smile. 

We took our spots on the court. I dug my bare feet into the lukewarm sand, gnarling the grains anxiously with my toes. The game started. 

Suddenly, a spinning white sphere arched over the net to me. I got in position, made a “V” with my outstretched arms, and did my typical thrust-up to loft the ball back to the other team. 

The ref blew her whistle: “Shhreeeeet!”

“Lifting!” she said. Whatever the hell that meant, the opposition got a point. 

“Lifting?” I said. “What does that mean?” 

The ref turned her head away. The folks on the other side of the net seemed to take my question like it was good news. 

My friend Ophelia tried to help. She said to me, “She’s basically saying… just don’t punch it up so much.” 

“But I got it over the net that way,” I said. “Like, isn’t that the point of the game?” 

Ophelia tilted her head and bit her lip. She gave me a “yes and no, you’re smart but dumb, I feel for you but now we’re gonna lose” kind of a look.  

“Just try to make your hands more steady,” she said. 

I guess that was good advice. 

But it was never gonna fucking happen. 

When the ball next found its way to me, I thumped it up and over. It was all instinct, desire, and a refusal to listen, baby. 

“Shhreeeeet!” the whistle shrieked. 

“Lifting!” cried the worst living thing in the universe.  

“Dude!” I said helplessly. 

We kept losing points to me and that judgey whistle. Ian came up to me in an effort to explain the rule. 

“Thanks, man,” I said. 

“So, do you get it?” he asked. 

“No.” 

In 2023, I just did an online search on the subject. Here’s what I found in a section titled: 

“Avoiding the Dreaded Lift.” 

Dreaded! Because it’s not a fun and relaxing game of V-ball without a sense of soul-torturing dread. 

“Being called for a lift can be frustrating and embarrassing.”

I’m pretty sure the author was at the Press Box that night watching me.

“But it can be avoided using proper mechanics anytime you’re touching the ball. Proper defensive posture, passing platforms, and setting hand placement can prevent most lift calls from ever occurring.” 

Proper mechanics?! Are we fixing a car for the King of England or are we trying to get a ball over a damn net?

“Focusing on strength training can also prevent the movements made out of weakness that result in a lift.”

OK, let’s stop there. I didn’t come to this “What is Lifting?” page to be insulted. Weakness. Lifters are notorious for their weakness. Ouch. Look, I do have thin, bony wrists. My wrists are six-and-half inches around, so maybe I do need a little extra oomph at the point of impacting a V-ball. 

But I still gotta love myself and I don’t need to feel inferior because of this stupid game people only watch for the hot bikini butts.  

Back on the court, I was being targeted as the weak link by the opposition. They were pointing at me, as if to say, “There he is. The guy who sucks. Found him again.” 

What happened next was my most positive play of the match, as far as influencing the score goes. It was the enemy’s serve, and because of me, our team regained the serve. 

But, there are more details to add. 

As usual, the flyin’ Wilson came towards me. I was in the back corner, and soon realized it might land out of bounds. In a second, I glanced down, spotted the boundary line, looked up, and assessed that Wilson was going to barely land out of bounds. I was delighted to know I was not going to touch the ball and risk being whistled this time. I let it go. 

And the ball drilled a kid in the face. The boy was only five or six. He hollered in pain. Tears welled in his eyes. He gave me a look meant for a monster. 

“Jesse!” a woman screamed. 

It was his mother. She must have been among the small crowd of spectators at one of the tables behind us, and apparently she let her son roam. The mom ran to the boy in distress and swept him into her arms to console him. 

Jesse’s gaze made me feel like a monster, while his mom’s gaze made me feel like a monster who would soon be set on fire for child abuse. The scorn in her stink-eye may have caused stink waves of shame to radiate from my body—I’m not sure. 

I could have returned the favor of pointing a finger at someone on the other side of the net—some tall asshole in a Brewers shirt who had turned away to twiddle his thumbs, the man who launched the flyin’ Wilson that hit the kid in the face—but I didn’t. At that point I was so wrecked with failure and guilt that I could only apologize. 

“Sorry!” I said. “Ooh, yeah… Sorry. Look, I’m sorry.” 

The angry mom and sobbing boy gave no reply. They only stared at me, then she slowly made her way out of the volleyball area, back towards the main bar. 

We were only halfway through losing that match. A few more whistles for lifting were going to ring out that night. 

Cal broke the stunned silence. He burst out laughing. 

“Holy shit!” he chuckled. 

A few others joined him. Somewhere between 20 minutes and 20 hours later, the most humiliating game of bar league volleyball ever played was over. 

I didn’t speak until the car ride home. Devastated in the backseat, I had to clear the air. 

“So here’s the thing with lifting…” I said. “I still don’t get it.”

The Anti-Golf Club

Though I don't have much on the compliment-front where golf is concerned, it is certainly worth noting that not all golfers are jerks. Some golfers are delightful, modest people, while most of the others are at least tolerable. The main thing they all have in common and the source of my gripe, however, is that they all seem to be OK with how much land is monopolized by their beloved hobby.


The amount of scenic, verdant land that gets hogged by golf courses is a big disappointment to those who can think of at least 18 outdoor activities that unmercifully kick the living shit out of golf. Games that involve running, catching, throwing, kicking, jumping, and physical-contact are unspeakably more awesome than cranky old men barking for total silence before they putt. Lying on a blanket and feeding strawberries to the inviting mouth of your significant other is so much better than launching into a temper tantrum within the sandpit of a par 3. Silently cursing the world and everything in it because some tiny ball you just clubbed did not ultimately roll where you wanted it to a hundred yards away is decidedly sadder than a husband pushing a stroller, flanked by his wife and older child riding bicycles on a beautiful day.

Golf courses waste more space than a billion clones of Honey Boo-Boo moms. Golf courses stand as further proof that rich white guys are no good at sharing land.

Now, before any kind of a “golf is for capitalists, parks are for commies” argument can be misconstrued, I want to make it clear that I believe in a free-market economy and I fully accept the individual's right to own private property. Sure, a whole lot of selfish, compulsively greedy white snobs happen to own that property for golfing purposes, but ultimately, free market equals free will and I can deal with that.

All I'm asking is that you consider this surprisingly sane plea to convert a golf course here and there into a vast open space that could be used to please a multitude of people with a wide array of hobbies. Is that so crazy? I'm about to mention stuff like trampolines, dogs, sports that require fast movement, and French-kissing, so if I still seem crazy, I don't know...go watch the Golf Channel and rub one out for all I care.

Here are 18—COUNT 'EM—18 different outdoor activities that are quite possibly superior to one (1) game that involves little athleticism or strategy and even less teamwork.


1:) Picnics: The first portion of the overhauled course, rechristened the Outdoor Smörgåsbord, features a 35,000 square-foot expanse with picnic tables and benches running along the spine of what used to be a fairway. The gently sloped, wooded fringes lay bare for blankets to be sporadically laid out by those from the general public willing to pay a minimal fee to enter the Outdoor Smörgåsbord for the day. Socializing with other groups is encouraged but not required. Some making out is tolerated, but nudity and full-fledged humping are not. Citizens are free to bring their own food in coolers, and as a bonus, a quaint restaurant that serves burgers, ice cream, pizzas, and pastries will be placed where some shitty putting green used to be. The little hole at the far end will retain its importance as the spot where a public toilet feeds a pipe that leads underground into the sewage system.


2.) Tennis: Once you get past the fact that the absolute coolest tennis player, John McEnroe, was a winy grouch, tennis isn't all that bad. Granted, like golf, it is a tad aristocratic, but it has three qualities that make it superior. First, rapid movement is required to play tennis well. Maintaining volleys and then scoring entails speed, agility, hand-eye-coordination, and endurance. Second, it's common to play tennis with a partner, in doubles-matches, and teamwork is more rewarding than snobby individualism. Finally, tennis courts are much more judicious in their usage of land; one golf course occupies as much space as a dozen-plus tennis courts. And to reestablish the theme here: taking up all those acres in order to feel superior even though little athleticism is required of the sport is what makes golf such a bloated nuisance.


3.) Basketball: From the adjacent tennis courts, it's a short drive for the cement-mixing trucks to the basketball area. Basketball is probably the premier team sport because it won't bore you as much as baseball's lulls nor inflict all that concussive head-trauma like football. Up-tempo, smooth, alive with rhythm, and physical but not brutal, basketball poses the ultimate challenge of the athlete's ego clash with the team's success. (Excluding Michael Jordan. He's the only one who could have both.) Its lone detriment is its bias against short people like me, but hey, Spud Webb proved a 5'7” guy with genetics better than mine can still win a dunk-contest. (Odds of becoming like Sud Webb if white: Impossible.)


4.) Mini-Golf: In this area, indignant golfers who roam the Smörgåsbord in a devastated stupor can at least receive a reprieve from a golf-less abyss. The mini-golf course is placed strategically after the basketball courts so that the bigots who golf won't immediately be driven to suicide by the sight of all those high-leaping black guys. In addition to its Tetris-like ability to compartmentalize space, mini-golf caters to couples on dates with the seriously silly competitiveness it instills. It is a game rife with outlandish obstacles and gaudy scenery. If you can tell your trash-talking date to hush up before draining a putt that zips through the spinning arms of a windmill that's as big as a vending machine, you're more of a champ than the solitary grouch who wines about the untimely gust of wind that blew his tiny ball into some sandbox type of thing.


5.) Skateboarding: An individual's sport that represents golf's antithesis, skateboarding is the perfect outlet for rebellious teens who want to risk injury without all that authoritative barking from coaches. With its quarter-pipes, half-pipes, and elongated pipes used for what the kids call “grinding,” skateboarding provides plenty of overt nods to paraphernalia sure to keep teens cackling through coughing fits. A huge sign adorned with Kenny Loggins' unsmiling mug painted above the words “Danger Zone” will warn skateboarders of the need to sign a waiver denying all culpability of the Smörgåsbord for injuries incurred. Such stern litigiousness will be offset, hopefully, by granting free admissions to anyone whose Youtube clip of a “dude eating shit” on the pavement exceeds ten-thousand views.


6.) Kickball: In keeping with the juvenile theme, kickball hearkens back to grade school playgrounds smeared with chalk and buzzing with frenetic youths. For whatever reason, the day we become aware of our lost innocence is the same day we retire from kickball. The game doesn't mesh well with adulthood, but with its playful mishmash of baseball, soccer, and dodgeball, kickball excels in the fun department. Plus, when a kickball is kicked for kickball purposes, the solid thump of a sneaker into a bounding, rubbery sphere yields the sound: "Poont!" That onomatopoeia alone should be enough to make us forget about going pro in some “real sport” and give kickball a reboot.


7.) Baseball: Possibly on the cusp of resurgence due to all the compounding baggage that seems poised to drag down football's dominance, baseball is the perfect sport for athletes who'd rather live longer, happier lives and not run all the time. Sure, some of the all-time greats have played the “I can't answer your steroid-question because I just forgot how to speak English” card and others were rotten-to-the-core racists who gambled their wives away in drunken poker games, but when played with true passion, persistence, and discipline—the way Hammerin' Hank, Joltin' Joe, and the nickname-less Greg Maddux played it—baseball is subtly sublime. And if that sales pitch doesn't sway you participants in Smörgåsbord baseball will be allowed to use performance enhancing drugs. Hell, if you're willing to drop hundreds of dollars on pills that will turn you into a demonic Incredible Hulk just so you can hit a ball over a fence and impress a pregnant blond on maternity leave from Hooter's, we're not going to stop you. Less leniently, however, would-be players who suggest the games should include Designated Hitters will be banished from the park just like the no-good goat that cursed decades of futility on the Chicago Cubs.


8.) Soccer: The eternal frustration of soccer is that it requires so much motion and endurance in order to achieve the bare modicum of points, but the cardiovascular exercise redeems much of the game's tedium. Two soccer fields could be placed within the confines of one hole of golf, and compared to golf, I really don't have many complaints against soccer; it's a legitimate sport that is about as watchable as a Queen Elizabeth sex tape. Players whose games end in scoreless ties will not be punished by the Smörgåsbord but they will be encouraged to seriously reassess their choices in life.


9.) Football: There are an abundance of knocks against football—especially since scientific research on the repercussions of concussions has emerged to conclude that the constant mayhem and ferocious collisions are probably bad for one's physical and mental well-being. American football—the kind which favors the use of hands for passing, carrying, and catching and disfavors the elfish men who reduce themselves to actually kicking the ball—is a gladiator-like show of swagger and brutality. But to a lot of Americans, including me, football is still awesome in spite of its obvious and glaring faults. Football is a fantasy—an unbelievable and exciting fantasy. It's the fun and irresistible vixen who pays her way through med school by pole-dancing-fantasy. It's the misunderstood bad-ass who'd make a perfect husband for one lucky lady if only he wasn't so committed to his biker-gang-fantasy. Football has so many downfalls that are overcome by its enthralling mix of athleticism, brute force, and strategy. Two football fields are to be placed consecutively within the smörgåsbord—one for flag and the other for tackle—and while I realize those who excel at the latter are undeniably more impressive virile, I'd rather swipe at flags, spin away from grabby hands, and not get my head drilled. Two decades of coolness and staggering sex appeal may not be worth an athletic afterlife burdened by violent mood swings, memory loss, and depression—but if you see otherwise and you can play football at a high level, locally or internationally, I'll get my popcorn ready, say thank you, scratch my head, and wrack my conscience all at the same time.


10.) Playgrounds: Moving right along past the cotton candy and ice cream stands on the threshold of the previous area's end-zone, playgrounds sprawl across the next plot of land. The playgrounds mark a moral threshold for those indignant golfers still stalking through the Smörgåsbord; if they can't at least stop scowling at the sight of happy children being bedazzled by swingsets and monkey-bars, they have revealed themselves to be monsters festering amongst mere everyday jerks in Polo shirts. For a fleeting moment, a cute toddler can convince just about anybody that the twisty-slide is the most awesome thing ever made. The Smörgåsbords playgrounds are also replete with merry-go-rounds, Four-square courts, bouncy castles, treehouses, fireman poles, balance beams, trampolines, sandboxes, wobbly wooden bridges, a model pirate ship, and—for the little hellraisers with steely nerves—a jungle gym. For safety purposes, that newfangled rubbery flooring will spread across much of the playgrounds—so as to convince kids that falling down never actually hurts in real life. Rubbery flooring will be provided by Playground Surface Bounce Back, not Playground Rubber Kids Kushion since the latter is but one “K” word away from being super-racist. And unlike certain golf courses, we're trying to avoid that sort of prejudice.


11.) Frisbee: These plastic discs of the anti-establishment may very well be flat because they are so often tossed by those who have had their lofty spirits flattened by power-mad aristocrats. Ironically, the same ilk of freethinkers who once challenged the accepted notion that the world is flat are also responsible for asking, “Why do we always have to throw round things?” through an exhalation of pot smoke. That mind-altered musing launched the Frisbee, and all these years later, the Smörgåsbord will thrill its players by dividing a field into thirds for games of catch, ultimate Frisbee, and for a long-range challenge, one (1) of those baskets that somewhat resembles a broken birdcage. If that seems insufficient—look—mini-golf is already available and if the layout overindulges in disc golf, too, then the golfers win, and if the golfers win...we'd be left to confoundedly wonder how the terrorists would feel about that.


12.) Washer Box and Bag Toss: These two games involve lofting small things at a bigger thing from a distance of 15 feet or whatever the hell your stoner-stickler friend keeps insisting it is, and they cater to the masses who have both limited square footage in their backyards and a drinking problem. More specifically, washer-box challenges its players to throw metallic rings into a square, wooden box with a short pipe at its core to permit extra points, while bag toss will test one's knack for softball-pitching a grainy sack onto an inclined, rectangular platform with a hole close to its far edge to permit extra points. They're both turn-based, with a pair of stationary sets straightforwardly opposed to each other, and a two-on-two format is typically employed—unlike a lot of the games' elite players. Washers and bags blur the line between loafing and competing. The ratio of beverages consumed to total steps run while playing washers and bags is something like five-trillion to zero. One hole of a (former) golf course could squeeze in dozens of both games. Arguments about which of the two is the superior game will not be tolerated—for the benefit of the Smörgåsbord as well as humankind in general. Quick footnote: Bag toss is known by another term, too, but I just couldn't think of any jokes to crack about “Corn Hole.”


13.) Paintball: If you've ever had the urge to reenact a session of Call of Duty in real-life, or, more morbidly, go on a shooting spree without all the actual consequences and carnage, paintball will splatter a red dot on the bullseye in your heart. The tougher alternative to laser-tag, the Smörgåsbord's paintball course will necessarily be confined by steep walls to preserve the eye-sockets of the other patrons. Within the walls, a vast scattering of disused theater sets, haystacks, barrels, abandoned buses, and various other hiding spots will satisfy passive bloodlust in pacifists and provoke war flashbacks in vets. Paintball is the only pseudo-sport to pair guns with balls, which is a ballsier move than anything golf has ever done—with the possible exception of allowing that incorrigible Happy Gilmore on the tour back in '96.


14.) Volleyball: Like basketball and—well, life—the tall are favored in volleyball. But volleyball differs from basketball in that it's more readily played by unfit commoners inside a bar's annex that has a dank warehouse feel to it. Hell, I've even played some volleyball, capably enough, in a bar league, albeit as a substitute. My most vivid memory was of jogging toward a borderline serve and judiciously letting it sail out of bounds—where it smacked an onlooking little boy in the face. He bawled spasmodically and ran to a mother that suddenly hated me. She swooped him up and consoled him with assurances that they would both scowl into the depths of my wretched soul throughout the rest of my one and only stint as a volleyball scab. Hopefully the Smörgåsbord's attendees will have volleyball experiences more akin to that athletic duel among the buff pilots from Top Gun—only not necessarily as homo-erotic.

15.) Dog Park: Inserting a plot-twist into this rather thorough outline, there have been three tracks—both five yards in width—running alongside of the Smörgåsbord the entire time. The outermost one is a grassy path suited for trotting mutts leashed by the owners that love them. The path leads to an expansive dog park which features tunnels, hurdles, teeter-totters, some A-shaped ramps that the pompous pooches seem to like, and furry butts to sniff for as far as their color-blind eyes can see. Plenty of space will be alloted for the lazy dogs who just want to nap in the shade. They're my heroes. Dog-banging will only be tolerated if both pets and their respective owners reach a consensual agreement. The Smörgåsbord's policy on dog-oral is more lenient. Removal and disposal of dookie will be the duty of owners and repeat offenders from the baseball zone who lobbied for the DH rule.


16.) Running: Recalling the tracks mentioned in the previous entry, the middle one provides a less poop-littered route to a plain on which people can run around in circles if that feels awesome to them for whatever reason. The beloved sport of ectomorphs doubles as torture for the overweight, and on the Smörgåsbord, athletic marvels are free to tote around a pigskin or a glove if that makes clod-hopping seem more worthwhile to them. Honestly, there might be room for more jokes in this entry, but running is so fucking self-explanatory I'm just going to be concise here.


17.) Biking: The innermost dirt-track eventually leads to an expanse consisting of hills, curves, and roundabouts. Bikes are like motorcycles for people who enjoy exercise and feel no need to announce to the neighborhood, “Asshole comin' through!” Ever since Lance Armstrong was exposed as a deceitful cheater, the sport has reverted back to its unwatchable origins. (Lance had a similar effect on the movie Dodgeball, by the way.) But a lot of activities can be enjoyed by those involved even though they're no fun for spectators. Elderly sex, for instance. Keep that in mind the next time you go for a bike ride.


18.) Go-karts: Somewhere between the fantastical glee of Mariokart and the drive-in-a-circle-'til-you-forget-how-to-read monotony of NASCAR exists go-karting, and that's about as happy as a medium can get. On a go-kart, one can viscerally experience speed and competition on the open road, along with those winding variations and figure-8's that the NASCAR pioneers could never wrap their heads around. It's also more dangerous than sitting on a couch with cramping hands, but not so dangerous that your corpse will be treated like a hero for taking on a senseless risk. Golfers who still feel implacably furious after beholding all 18 of the Smörgåsbord's attractions are welcome to park their running go-kart in a tool-shed until their living nightmares start to fade away. Then one of the Smörgåsbord's employees will rush in and save them, maybe even treat them to a pep-talk and a free caramel apple. We don't condone malice at the Outdoor Smörgåsbord, and besides, if you think about it, parking a running go-kart inside a tool shed is really more of an indoor thing.



I remain confident that a compromise can be reached between me—a golf-hater who's clearly coping with more abnormalities than the average person, golfer or otherwise—and a small contingency of caddy-shackin' ball-whackers who'd be willing to give up a few of their less prestigious or possibly downright shitty courses. And if I live to see but one monopoly of pristine land converted into an Outdoor Smörgåsbord before I drunkenly choke on a folded slice of pizza six months from now, I'll consider the anti-golf club a success.