Sometimes, expectations cannot be low enough

I finally played my first golf game of the season today.
Now the important question is, 'why?'
I have no idea.
I knew it would not be pretty. I played exactly one round of golf in the sunny south this year where it was, frankly, not at all sunny, and only south, on that particular day. No sun, no heat, plenty of howling wind, and four wrong-headed golfers determined to struggle through, no matter what nature threw our way.
Apart from that, it has been at least six months since I have played golf, so my expectations should have been low, as I hoisted the bag of clubs into the back of my friend's SUV.
And they were. Just not nearly low enough.
We play with a couple of kind, local rules. One is, on the first tee, 'hit 'til you're happy.' This allows a golfer who arrives in a rush, with the day's anxieties still sitting on his shoulder, to pound a couple of mistakes, shake off the tension, and get into the game without penalty.
What no one imagined in inventing this rule is that a) each subsequent drive might, in fact, be worse, and b) you might never, ever be happy.
I eventually went with my original drive, which at least had the happy advantage that I could find it, and actually swing a club in its vicinity.
And so, hole by hole, it went.
We were playing a course I know really well, and one that, while challenging, I have performed adequately on, from time to time. Or at least, on some of the holes. Really.
Not today.
I drove (that is way too forceful a word; truth is, there was much more squibbing, duffing, blipping and bopping than driving) the ball into the woods (several times), into the fields abutting the course, into the water (fish were taking to dry land to avoid the danger), and on one memorable hole, almost through the peak of my cap as I managed the remarkable feat of blipping the ball almost straight up.
And those were just the drives.
My other clubs were more predictable, in that I could predict with great accuracy that I had no idea what they might do next. My three-wood might produce a nice, straight, 190 yard second shot right down the fairway (which happened at least twice, I swear) or it might send the ball on a right wing arc into the woods, onto other fairways, or into parts unknown.
My pitching wedge was good for 90 yards, or three.
My sand wedge... well, when it comes to the sand wedge, I cannot bring myself even to write of these things. I dissolve into tears. I may need to seek professional, psychological help.
I finished with a miserable score, but my buddy looked back, and said, 'I don't think there's anyone playing the 17th and 18th behind us. Want to try those two holes again?'
I agreed with alacrity. The 17th had been particular gruesome in my first attempt, involving two shots in the sand trap (not into, in), and the famous Knowles double chip shot that flies completely over the green, and then (next shot), back again.
So we played it again, John. And I played the hole well, a long part five that I conquered with panache.
Who says this game is tough? I can't wait to play again.