Toads-in-the-Hole

Since our paths first crossed on a stage nearly ten years ago, I have known Joel to be an aficionado of varied avocations. At first, there were all those Little Games – as we observers called them – a descriptor of both the pieces of play and a diminutive nickname meant to capture the silly intricacies and excessive details of war gaming.

Joel’s love affair with soccer (and a short stint playing rugby in the Pacific Northwest) resulted in injuries and surgeries, but his passion for running really fast with or at a ball is now seen in a paternal fantasy that Adelaide, too, will sacrifice her knees cleverly kicking a black and white ball to and fro, while her proud Papa stands poised near the goal line offering pointers and praise.

Shortly after we moved to Oregon, Joel brought home a box filled with a hydrometer, crown caps, a bench capper, several ounces of raw cascade hops, and various bottles, buckets, tubes, and vessels. So, we became brewers of our own beer, thanks to an enterprising shopkeeper, a used copy of The New Complete Joy of Home Brewing, and Joel’s eager enthusiasm to make a giant, steamy mess in the kitchen.

And then, there are the countless fantasy sports teams of which Joel claims membership. Basketball, baseball, football – there are fantasy teams for every season of the year for armchair managers. This football season alone Joel plans to manage no fewer than four imaginary teams, racking up points for kicking, passing, defending, and scoring, all in an effort to oust other members of the pretend league and declare himself Champion and Best Overall Fantasy Football Player of the Year.

But, golf?

Perhaps his attempt is an effort to play-along with his fellow medical student sandbox buddies. Or perhaps he plays because golf traditionally seems to be the sport of retired doctors. Or perhaps because he’d just like to try something new. Whatever the reason, Joel has taken to whacking a small, glaringly white ball long green distances with a thin, shiny stick.

Under the tutelage of my father, Joel has passed our summer family gatherings with a Bud Light (eew) in hand, touring the scores of golf courses in the St. Cloud area with a hodgepodge of my relations. He even managed to score his own set of clubs and golf bag thanks to the generosity of my parents (My dad’s been looking for a son to golf with for years … At first we thought Erin would be his long-lost acquiescent, but then she discovered Boys and Volleyball and Boys).

So, my spouse is currently espoused with notions of the perfect putt, the loft of the chip shot, the heft of the 9 iron, the sound of the drive, the sweep of the fairway, and the glory of a Birdie.

But, like any beginner, he spends a lot of his time on the course shouting “Fore!”