And If They Put Turbochargers on Each City Golf Cart, Zev . . .

News item: City Councilman Zev Yaroslavsky proposes a system of time clocks and cycle-riding marshals to keep play moving on the city’s 13 public golf courses.

I heard the siren during my backswing, and looked over my shoulder to see the motorcycle cop closing in on me, red lights flashing. He looked like a Highway Patrolman, except his helmet was white and dimpled, like a large golf ball, and his pants were a garish plaid.

Finishing my swing, I topped the ball, driving it straight down into the ground from which it caromed up off my nose. My best drive of the day, a playable lie.

“What’s going on here?” I demanded.

Marshal: I’m a Fairway Patrol officer, pal. I clocked you going too slow on that last hole. I’m going to have to write you up for not speeding. The technical term is misdemeanor moseying. Is this a foursome or a Rose Parade float? By the way, where is the rest of your foursome?

Me: I lost ‘em two holes back. They all went off to look for lost balls in the swamp. I never saw ‘em again, not after I heard ‘em yelling something about quicksand.

Marshal: That’s the only thing quick about this foursome, pal. New city rule says you have to play the front nine in 2 hours 20 minutes, and you’re an hour over that now.

Me: Listen, Mr. uh . . .

Marshal: Ralph Dylan.

Me: Marshal Dylan, eh? How’re Doc and Kitty? Listen, I promise I’ll pick up the pace these last five holes. I wouldn’t want Festus to lock me up. Hey, I never played this course before, and I don’t know all the ground rules. Is that shopping mall out of bounds? It ate two dozen of my tee shots.

Marshal: I noticed. I’m going to have to write you up for reckless driving, and littering. Also, after watching you on that last green, for leaving the scene of an accident.

Me: You guys are tough.

Marshal: Got to be, pal. This slow play has become a serious problem.

Me: Maybe so, but golf is meant to be savored and enjoyed. It’s a form of communing with nature, becoming one with the great outdoors. You’ve got to stop and smell the divots. Besides, if God had meant for golf to be played fast, He wouldn’t have invented trees and sand to keep getting in the way of my best shots. And this certainly isn’t a game you can play with motorcycle cops breathing down your neck. You guys are going to take all the fun out of golf.

Marshal: There’s fun in golf?

Me: Sure, you ought to try it.

Marshal: I’ve played every day for 30 years.

Me: Then maybe you can give me some tips on playing faster.

Marshal: My pleasure. No golfer can resist giving advice. I noticed that you over-waggle. Five minutes’ waggling over one fairway shot should be plenty. Picasso didn’t agonize over a brush stroke the way you agonize over a golf stroke.

Me: Maybe not, but Picasso didn’t have a serious problem with keeping his paint on the canvas. Besides, my waggle relaxes me.

Marshal: Try Valium. When the foursome behind you starts firing warning drives off your head, that’s a tipoff you’re spending too long on each shot. We recommend you don’t get into the habit of coming to a full stop before each shot. Pretend you’re playing tennis. Don’t over-think each swing. We’ve got some players so scared now, they don’t even get out of their golf carts to swing. Also, we officially encourage “gimmies.” Lining up a 14-foot, 3-break putt can take most of the morning.

Me: What’s the distance limit for a “gimmie”?

Marshal (kicking my tee shot back toward me): That’s a “gimmie.”

Me: Seriously, I’m laying 350 yards off the green, with a dogleg left and a birdleg right. What club would you pull out?

Marshal: Canadian. But I’m no expert. Where’s your caddy?

Me: Out in the parking lot. They wouldn’t let me drive it out here on the course. Something about tire marks.

Marshal: No, no, your caddy , the kid who carries your clubs. A good caddy can help you play faster, show you a lot of short cuts. In your case, he could show you a shortcut to the nearest bowling alley.

Me: I get the hint. Just write me up and I’ll take a nice relaxing sprint through these last few holes. If you write me a ticket, what will the city do? Fine me? Take away my driver’s license?

Marshal: Tell you what, pal. This time I’m going to let you off with a warning. Next time . . .

Me: Don’t worry, Marshal Dylan. There won’t be a next time. I’m going to take up a nice, leisurely sport. Like white-water kayaking.