The NASG (National Association of Senior Golfers) has negotiated with the USGA to modify the rules of golf for seniors. With tongue-in-cheek, here’s what they came up with:
Rule 1.a.5 — A ball sliced or hooked into the rough shall be lifted and placed on the fairway at a point equal to the distance it carried or rolled into the rough with no penalty. The senior should not be penalized for tall grass which grounds keepers failed to mow.
Rule 2.d.6 (b) — A ball hitting a tree shall be deemed not to have hit the tree. This is simply bad luck and luck has no place in a scientific game. The senior player must estimate the distance the ball would have traveled if it had not hit the tree and play the ball from there.
Rule 3.b.3(g) — There shall be no such thing as a lost ball. The missing ball is on or near the course and will eventually be found and pocketed by someone else , making it a stolen ball. The player is not to compound the felony by charging himself or herself with a penalty.
Rule 4.c.7(h) — If a putt passes over a hole without dropping, it is deemed to have dropped. The law of gravity supersedes the rules of golf.
Rule 5 — Putts that stop close enough to the cup that they could be blown in, may be blown in. This does not apply to balls more than three inches from the hole. No one wants to make a travesty of the game.
Rule 6.a.9(k) — There is no penalty for so-called “out of bounds.” If penny-pinching golf course owners bought sufficient land, this would not occur. The senior golfer deserves an apology, not a penalty.
Rule 7.g.15(z) — There is no penalty for a ball in a water hazard, as golf balls should float. Senior golfers should not be penalized for a manufacturer’s shortcomings.
Rule 8.k.9(s) — Advertisements claim that golf scores can be improved by purchasing new golf equipment. Since this is financially impracticable for many senior golfers, one-half stroke per hole may be subtracted for using old equipment.
A golf poem
In my hand I hold a ball,
white and dimpled, rather small.
Oh, how bland it does appear,
this harmless looking little sphere.
By its size I could not guess,
the awesome strength it does possess.
But since I fell beneath its spell,
i've wandered through the fires of hell.
My life has not been quite the same,
since I chose to play this game.
It rules my mind for hours on end,
a fortune it has made me spend.
It has made me yell, curse and cry,
I hate myself and want to die.
It promises a thing called par,
if I can hit it straight and far.
To master such a tiny ball,
should not be very hard at all.
But my desires the ball refuses,
and does exactly as it chooses.
It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies,
and even disappears before my eyes.
Often it will have a whim,
to hit a tree or take a swim.
With miles of grass on which to land,
it finds a tiny patch of sand.
Then has me offering up my soul,
if only it would find the hole.
It's made me whimper like a pup,
and swear that I will give it up.
And take to drink to ease my sorrow,
but the ball knows,
I’ll be back tomorrow.