In high school, you’re either athletic or your family takes three extra steps away when you’re holding a stick. 

I’m really good at sports. 

You’re probably wondering, “Sandra is shaped like a noodle. How could she possibly be athletic?” 

You’re right. I lied to you. 

During one of our weekly travels to the story brainstorm board in the newsroom, Coach Duncan came up with the brilliant idea of letting the least athletic person on staff (me) play a sport: golf. 

With the help of Laci Raub, my friend on the golf team, and a payment of $30, I buckled her old, holey golf glove on and we set out for the adventure.

Stepping onto a golf course for the first time – minus going mini-golfing at the Plex –  my initial thoughts consisted of “it can’t be that bad, I don’t even have to run.”

I was wrong. 

I believe I should point out the fact that I was at a bit of a disadvantage. I’m short. I have short arms, legs, everything about me is short. I’m a tinier version of Steve Rogers before he became Captain America. Laci’s golf clubs or what I call “golf sticks” did not match my height. 

The first time we had to “tee off” (I’m still trying to get the hang of golf terms), Laci showed me how it was done and then taught me the correct way to hold the “golf club.” I still had no idea what she was telling me. Swing the golf club with a 90-degree angle? What does that even mean?

Laci made it look too easy. 

Remember those montage scenes in teen movies where someone just decides to become a D-I athlete within three minutes? That’s not me. Instead of the ball, I hit the grass. Numerous times. When I actually did hit the ball, the little bonker went in the wrong direction. 

How did I even manage to do that?

I’d also like to add the fact that if there were ponds around the golf course, I definitely would’ve hit the ball into the water a plethora of times. 

On a few occasions, I thought I did so well until I realized how far Laci’s ball flew compared to mine. I couldn’t hit the ball correctly for some reason. 

At least I was able to drive the golf cart. We just won’t mention the fact that I had no idea where I was going, even when we met up with part of the girls golf team during their practice. 

With the extent of my superb skills, I was absolutely terrified of attempting to hit the ball in front of people who actually played golf on a daily basis. How embarrassing. 

Screaming, “don’t look,” at the freshman group off to the side did not motivate them to avert their eyes away from my embarrassment. When I hit the ball, there were simultaneous giggles ringing behind me. 

I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but the holes on the green weren’t big enough.

Nine holes later, after yells at the ball to stop rolling, multiple broken tees and intently searching for the ball when I couldn’t remember where I hit it, we had finally finished the round of golf. I’m pretty sure I won. Ha.

Maybe I should join the golf team.