Word of advice: If you’re a golf fan, do NOT go out to a bar on Sunday afternoon. I repeat, DO NOT.
(Unless that bar is at a golf club or TopGolf. Look at you, fancy pants.)
So I sit down at the neighborhood sports bar. Usually, this joint is PACKED with football or hockey fans and their food is basically plated heart disease. It’s exactly what you’re envisioning- dark lighting, pool tables in the corner, the faint musty smell left over from years of smoking inside. But we know the bartender and the mac and cheese bites are worth the inevitable kick-back later in the evening. So here we are.
It’s Sunday, midday, and I politely ask that one of the TVs be switched over to Golf Channel when the bartender gets the chance. There wasn’t a specific tourney that I HAD to watch, but Sundays are my golf day. I watch it, I read about it, I talk about it, I think about it, I write about it (I do those things most other days too, but I’m particularly fond of my bonding time with David Feherty on Sundays).
Clearly I was the ONLY human in this bar that thought golf was worthy of screen time, because let me tell you, I got some LOOKS.
Dude next to me: *stares, mouth agape, at the 23-year-old female who just asked to watch the old man sport*
Older female bartender: *sneers as if to say Not a chance in hell am I turning Nascar off for golf, since I see more rednecks than middle-aged white men in here*
Couple across the bar: *exchange horrified glances and look anywhere but at me, as though eye contact might cause them to catch the golf affliction*
Roommate: *smiles and waits for the bartender to do as I asked, because last time he checked, we were paying customers same as the Nascar fans watching cars take ANOTHER left turn*
Bartender says, “You know, hun, we’ve only got the three TVs on this side, and all of them are spoken for.”
I look around; there are only two other people on my side of the bar – my roommate and the man next to me who, at this point, is STILL staring at me like I’m a goddamn unicorn farting rainbows because I asked about golf.
I point to the third TV, farthest to the right, directly in front of us. “Looks like that one is free, given two of the three people on this side of the room would like to watch golf.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but thinks better of it and grabs the remote. Then, I shit you not, she pretends she can’t find the channel.
I’m not a genius. Not by far. I may have graduated valedictorian (true fact) but I’ve also cooked the cardboard to the bottom of a frozen pizza. Twice. But this woman scrolled AROUND the vicinity of the channel, expecting me not to pick up on her mastermind trickery.
Before she could formulate some lie about the cable package not including the Golf Channel, I grabbed my coat and left.
Look. I used to bartend, so it’s not like the plight of the Golf-Hating Barkeep is foreign to me. But your guests pay your rent. And if your guest asks you to change the channel, short of Cinemax, you do it.
Not only have I not returned to said Golf-Hating Bar, but I try to watch golf at home or places like Buffalo Wild Wings (since every sport on the planet is on at least one of their TVs).
Next time you go out, do me a favor and ask to watch Golf Channel. See if you get blacklisted.
I’d love to know if it’s just me.
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