Reporter raps about mini-golf underworld

By Sam Fran Scavuzzo
Collegian Editor
August 29, 2007

A lot of people will tell you about their temporary summer job horror story with a good degree of legitimate gripe. Lifeguards get stuck in the doldrums of staring at the sea horizon; McDonald’s employees tire of grease fires – I get it.

I could bore you with complaints levied against my recently departed source of employment and get a fair amount of pent-up angst off my chest. I’ll spare you the laundry list of petty grievances; instead, my mission is to intellectually stimulate your noodles with the metaphors of life that emerged from my summer job.

This summer, in addition to a few other jobs, I worked at Gino’s Miniature Golf & Batting Cages & Driving Range (the grammar alone made my skin crawl and I ain’t too keen about grahmer netiher).

After arising from a comfortable slumber, I’d trudge out to the fair town of Mantua to work my Friday, Saturday and Sunday shift of 4 to 10 p.m. Washing balls, dealing with screaming 8-18-and-38-year-olds and cleaning out batting cages became routine. So was not having a weekend. All things considered, the job really wasn’t too bad.

However, three minor annoyances led me to discover a few philosophical insights on life that I will now share with you. 1) There are two kinds of people in this world; those which aim at the person operating the tractor picking up balls and those who don’t. 2) The free game at the end of mini-golf is based entirely on luck. 3) No matter what people say, they do not drive the ball farther using a Happy Gilmore knockoff golf swing.

Upon first glance these statements may sound like me being a whiney-woo, but they go deeper than superficial aggravations.

OK, I was a range boy. With pride, I mounted the “Get ‘Er Done” green John Deer tractor and with zeal, I ran over golf balls so middle-aged men and awkward teenagers on first dates could have more balls. It was the most peaceful and relaxing occupation imaginable. Entirely protected by a huge steel cage there was not a chance at me being hit by golf balls (unless they kicked off a wheel when I was driving, but that really wasn’t that big a deal).

Still, people would take aim and launch a barrage of balls, a tirade of Titlists a megaton of….well you get the picture. People tried to hit me. Most times, I would have headphones on and not even notice getting hit. However, when I did notice, I would get angry.

What kind of person wishes you a nice day while purchasing balls from you one minute, then whacks ’em at you the next? Often, I’d drive around and laugh at the venom people had in their eyes when they saw the tractor. Some people took joy out of thinking (erroneously) that they were putting me in harm’s way.

I found God only makes bloodthirsty vicious people and kind, considerate people who waited for you to pass before practicing their three wood.

Moving on, my next point is a little lighter. Life is about luck. On numerous occasions, I saw a 30-something golf pro line up a shot perfectly on the daunting free game hole, only to miss wide left. Almost as often, a three-year-old would blindly thwack a ball to earn a free pass.

It takes a little bit more than good looks and a winning smile to be successful; sometimes you need to make friends with lady luck to get your foot in the door.

Adam Sandler has made wholesome, silly movies you don’t feel awkward watching with your parents since the Mid-’90s. I’m not saying they are all great, but Sandler has done alright. At least he’s not Rob Schneider.

But the effect Happy Gilmore had on the driving range community is more annoying than a Carlos Mencia monologue on race relations. This is pretty much how it goes. Under-par guy is trying to impress out-of-his-league girlfriend. After duffing ten balls he gets bored and remembers that Sandler flick. He steps back (behind the yellow line which is there for your safety), takes two swift strides and inaccurately launches a ball into the fairway.

In strictly golf terms, you don’t shoot well. Your head is all over the place, your alignment is off not to mention there is a real possibility of missing the ball.

But there are bigger things than poor golf shoots. Poor comedy aggravates me more. Come on man, if you’re gonna take a joke from a golf movie, pirate Caddy Shack. Bill Murray, Chevy Chase and Rodney Dangerfield take the cake over Sandler, Carl Weathers and Bob Barker every time.

So what’s the philosophical point about not imitating Sandler? Watch your words, elitist guys will judge you. Take heed in the great wisdom I learned from my summer occupation. And remember to sharpen your tiny pencils.

scavuzzos1@lasalle.edu