Golf is not a dangerous sport except to your ego.

It is not leaping out of an airplane with a small chute to land you safely. It is not driving a race car around curves over two hundred miles an hour. It is not getting tackled by a three hundred and fifty pound lineman who isn’t thinking of tucking you into bed. 

This sign is posted at the Santa Ana Golf Course in Bernalillo, New Mexico.

We are in snake country in New Mexico. New Mexico is one of the fifty U.S. states with Congressional Senators and Representatives with English as well as Spanish as our official languages. Despite our statehood,we have more in common with Mexico than the colonial red brick homes of Virginia, coon-skin hats and flintlock rifles.

Despite the snake warning, we golfers sometimes search for our bad shots in snake country because we find three or four others to put into our bag even if we don’t find the one we hit off the tee. Our group of eight to sixteen ” old men ”  manage to play once a week, stocking up on ” birdie juice” to celebrate our one under par successes in a best ball team format.

If we had all paid attention to warnings, we wouldn’t be where we are today, riding around in golf carts while the rest of the world works.


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