My parents made me play golf.
The thrill of whacking a dimpled orb with a stick in hopes of it landing in a tiny hole eluded me as a child and continues to elude me as an adult. I appreciate my parents wanting to have a family hobby, but golf? Seriously? Psychedelic-patterned shorts aside, I couldn’t get passionate about the game. Oh, and I was terrible. A danger to myself and those in close proximity.