To be perfectly honest, I am a golf fanatic.
For years now, I wake up at the crack of dawn every Monday and Tuesday and dial into the L.A. city golf reservation system with one phone in my left hand and one in my right.
Sometimes I get straight in when the system opens at 6 a.m. but more times than not it takes me dozens, even hundreds, of redials before the recorded voice says: "Welcome to the City of Los Angeles Department of Recreation and Parks teetiime reservation system....to reserve a teetime press one..."
It's so bad that Francois our cockatiel does perfect imitations of a busy signal. But I am an expert at making reservations and almost always able to get one of the earliest teetimes for Saturday and Sunday for me and my pals.
I am not an expert golfer. In fact, I'm terrible and I cheat all the time. But I do love the game. It gets me out of my head, connects me with the birds and the trees and the sky above and with my friends for a few hours.
There's a fraternity among golfers, and that's especially true among municipal course golfers, a camaraderie that comes from playing on working class facilities where the sand traps are like concrete, the greens bumpy, and the fairways covered with bare spots and muddy patches even in the heat of summer.
I'm not complaining, a cowpatch would be fine with me. But that's not true for all municipal course golfers, the ones who take it seriously and have the skill to hit the ball straight and far. They are given to bitching about the marshals who drive around oblivious to slow players, the condition of the courses and the soaring fees the city is charging.
Right now, with City Hall paralyzed by its financial mismanagement, they are up in arms over plans to price city courses out of the market, cut back in maintenance and give away a contract for golf carts that fails to maximize revenue to the treasury.