Guest: The worst golfer by par

I’ve officially sunk to the lowest level of humanity.

Yesterday evening, despite the protests of my conscience, I went out and played — close your eyes if you’re squeamish — golf.

No, I’m not a millionaire. I didn’t hit the links to network or plan business acquisitions. I just went on a golf course to hit a ball around and feel smug about myself.

What a horrid thing for a respectable taxpayer to do.

It wasn’t even a real golf course. It was a Topgolf place. But I had to try it. I had to know what people saw in the game.

For those who haven’t tried Topgolf, the principle is to stand on a very high platform and hit golf balls as far as you can into holes way out in the distance.

The further the hole, the more points you score for landing a ball in it. You don’t get a bonus for knocking your spouse off the platform, even if he or she is being really annoying.

You take turns with a group of friends, if you have any, to see who can rack up the most points with six shots.

That’s six golf shots, not six whiskeys. Despite golf being the most boring game known to man, you can actually get through a game without drinking. I did. Barely.

I went with my neighbor, Sal, and his family. Sal is Italian, a golf nut, and a tax accountant, though not necessarily in that order.

At first, the Italian took the lead. Once we climbed the stairs to the golfing platform, we ordered a pizza. When it arrived, Sal took one look and nearly chucked it off the platform.

I learned that day that real margherita pizza is made with provola cheese, not mozzarella.

I also learned that whatever they teach in accounting school translates pretty well to golf. The moment Sal loosened his tie, a new look came into his eyes.

Whack! I watched his golf ball soar into the distance and roll into a hole. The computer on our platform registered an obscene number of points.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Sal’s kids had clearly inherited the accounting gene. They also tallied high numbers. Now it was my turn.

Unfortunately, neither of my parents is an accountant. I took a club (I don’t know the weight) and stepped up to a ball (I don’t know the type).

Then I took a swing and closed my eyes. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

I cracked open an eye. The golf ball was still on its tee. The club was lying way below me on the green. It hadn’t even gotten near a hole.

They say low scores are desirable in golf, but that’s not how it worked here. I was so far down the leaderboard that the computer stopped showing me as a player.

I ended up finishing the mozzarella pizza while watching Sal and his family hit golf balls far enough to threaten the citizens of neighboring countries. And at the end of it, I understood.

It’s not about what golf lets you do. It’s what golf keeps you from doing.

For however long we were playing, Sal didn’t have to be an accountant. The longer the game, the longer he didn’t have to be one. And there are few games longer than golf.

This gave me new respect for the sport. I almost considered signing up for lessons.

Then I remembered that someone had to pay for the pizza, and I got back to work.