At The Commercials: Oh, Tiger... you creepy mofo.

I find the new Nike commercial for Tiger Woods... creepy. And that is without considering that the voiceover is by Earl Woods, the late (as in dead!) father of Tiger. Eech. He has been gone for a while, so you know the statements are just spliced together from something else - like what Earl thought about Tiger's game on the 17th green - as opposed to being about Tiger's tiger.

And second, given what a sleazy individual Tiger apparently is, it is weird to see him filmed in this sort of confessional style ad. He looks like he's about to cry throughout, and I feel uncomfortable feeling and seeing sympathy for Tiger.

However, for the Masters, I do hope that Tiger wins by about 20 strokes, because it would cause the sports columnist Armageddon of righteous indignation. I'm classy like that.

Observations from the driving range

Some random thoughts while working at the driving range on a random day...

- Almost every morning shift I work, right around 9 a.m., a really, really old man comes down to golf. Now, I work at a driving range, so this in itself isn't so unusual. What is unusual is that, uh, he really shouldn't be getting out of the house so much. Even just pulling into a parking space and backing out when he's finished is a slow, laborious chore, and if anyone is near him he just won't do it.

As I speak, he started at about 9 a.m., and it's now 10:30 a.m. In that timespan, he has only hit about 30 golf balls – half a bucket. It's a really pleasant, mild day in terms of weather, so he shouldn't be getting so winded that he has to stop.

I realize he probably just wants to get out of the house and to get some exercise, but he always buys a large, not a small, and he takes forever, which poses logistical problems. (When nobody is golfing, I can use the cart to grab balls quickly, whereas I hate driving the caged-in mule because I get hit with golf balls.) He also never brings his empty basket back, and leaves empty soda and iced tea cans around.

I'm also worried that because of his poor health, something could happen, and I'm no longer first-aid certified. But much like family members dealing with their octogenarian parents still driving, it's not like I can just refuse to sell golf balls to him.

- I almost had to kick out three punk kids the other day since they were being unbelievably stupid. They were shagging some balls out; no problem there. But then as I was going around in the cart, they were running 50 yards out to snag the balls they had just hit.

I normally look the other way on this kind of stuff when kids are involved, except that this time, there were other people hitting! So, each time they did this, they were running the risk of getting nailed in the head with a liner.

Having some kid suffer a brain injury while I was working probably wouldn't look good on my resume, so I told them to knock it off, which of course got a sneer. Good times, good times. The thing is, all three were about 13 or 14, so they should have known better to risk their safety for some cheap golf balls; buckets cost $4 and $6 for small and large, respectively. Future Al Capones, they are not.

- The biggest factor in the business we do is the weather, even more than what day of the week it is. You'd think we would do gangbusters on the weekend, but except for Friday night, there is no guaranteed “busy” shift here. A good shift total is anything more than $100. Expenses are low for the range; each shift costs roughly $45, with 14 shifts per week, plus 20 gallons of gas per week.

A hot, muggy day means everyone is either at the beach or staying home, and I'm lucky if I'll clear $50. But on a cool, sunny day, I'll clear $200, which pays for four shifts by itself. This is all without any money sunk into advertising, or into buying new golf balls. Our balls are all very old. (teehee!)

Athletic prowess and lack thereof

Caddyshack. Watch it, learn it, love it.

I consider myself fairly run-of-the-mill when it comes to athletic ability. The only sports I might be considered above-average in would be basketball, but this relies a lot on the level of competition I'm facing and the height of the other player. Normally, I can make sure I'm not embarrassed on the courts. My shot is very streaky, but I always put in full effort on the defensive end, even if my natural skill level isn't great. I played freshmen hoops, but got cut during tryouts from a high school team that wasn't especially good.

Because of all the hours I've logged on the hardwood, I also tend to be passable on the volleyball court. The past couple of Sundays, I've been helping some friends fill out their practice roster, and it's always a lot of fun to me. My lack of height – I'm only about 5'9” on a good day – hurts, since I like to play the front, but I'm a decent setter and I can at least strike well enough to be a decent for a “just for fun” co-ed team. My serving is actually pretty good, because my head smack puts a lot of weird spin on the ball.

From there, things drop off steeply. Back in the day, I was a good Little League player, but my work at the plate always stunk. I'm good in the infield, but even in softball now, I hit for almost all singles. (Ironic, since the “singles only” player with an inflated batting average is severely overrated in conventional baseball, yet that's what I am.) Except for a forgettable half-year playing midget / bantam football and another half-hearted attempt at track, that wraps up my “formal” athletic exploits.

The point of this entry isn't to brag about my (limited) accomplishments, but rather as a launching point to complain about the people who come to the driving range. If you're some fat ass, don't complain that you can't hit the ball 200 yards with our clubs and our balls. (teehee.) Yes, they're both old and crappy, but the spare tire around your gut is the bigger reason why you can't drive the ball with authority.

It annoys me because I have to deal with the complaints. Normally, because I don't want to alienate the customers, I shift the onus on to the town. But honestly, I'm more often thinking, “Why don't you hit the gym before you complain about your shot, jack ass?” If my jumper was off in basketball, I don't normally blame the ball or the rim, but this seems to be standard form with golf.

Sure, there are some fat ass golfers – John Daly – who can manage to make it on the tour, just like David Wells and C.C. Sabathia have managed to carve out impressive baseball careers as plus-sized bastards. Most of us need to get into shape though. And if my measly ass can hit it about 150 yards with the crappy plastic clubs, even though I have no significant golfing experience and little natural strength, then the problem isn't the clubs.