(Photo stolen from this site)
Never mind nearly being thrown from an out-of-control golf cart or hemorrhaging our discretionary income to TopFlight and the Tuscan Ridge Golf Club every month, Golf has been trying to kill me for years.
Once, as I was speeding along the Kaanapali Parkway on my way home to Lahaina (when I lived in Maui, *sigh*), a golf ball came out of NOWHERE to thwack my poor little Corolla on the hood. Had I goosed the gas by a mere fraction the ball would have hit me through the open window, killing me instantly, I'm sure. Or at least making a welt.
A few months later I walked along that same parkway from my ticket booth (where I sold tickets for the company luau and for other tours and activities) down to the luau grounds to deliver the receipts. As I strolled down the sidewalk a car turned into the driveway behind me, and the driver called to me. I turned around and waved, pausing only a second. When I resumed my walk a golf ball hurtled from high in the sky and hit to the right of the sidewalk, about a yard ahead of me. Had I not stopped to wave the ball would have hit me square in the temple, killing me instantly, or at least smarting a whole lot.
This is my only evidence that Golf is trying to kill me, but I think it's compelling. I'm cagey, however, and Golf hasn't gotten me yet. I avoid golf courses, pro shops and Chas on Saturdays.
I think Jai Alai has it in for me, too.