So, I got tangled up in this whole “makray golf” thing a while back. My neighbor, old Mr. Henderson, kept going on about it during our fence chats. Said his grandkids loved it, that it was some special kind of backyard golf he learned about ages ago. Sounded a bit odd, the name especially, but okay, I thought I’d humor him and see what was up.
He dragged out this dusty box from his shed. Inside? Some beat-up putters that looked like they’d lost a fight with a lawnmower, weirdly heavy balls, and these little wooden ramp things. No instructions, of course. Just Henderson saying, “You just set ’em up and putt, sonny. Feel the makray.” Whatever that meant.
So, we spent an afternoon setting up a makeshift course on my lawn. Digging shallow holes wasn’t happening, not with the wife’s flowerbeds nearby. We used coffee cans instead. Laid out those ramps Henderson had. Tried to figure out some rules. It was mostly just whacking the ball towards a can, sometimes using the ramps, sometimes not. Henderson kept muttering about “reading the grain” of my already patchy lawn.
The Actual Playing Bit
Well, we started playing. It was… something. The putters were too short for me, really threw off my back. Those heavy balls didn’t roll right, they just kind of skidded. Hitting the ramps? Mostly sent the ball flying into the bushes. Henderson seemed to be having a blast, though, chuckling away.
It reminded me of this time years ago, working on that community garden project down by the old mill. We had this one guy, Gary, who insisted we needed a special “composting technique” he’d invented. Involved burying fish heads under specific phases of the moon. Total nonsense. We spent weeks digging and burying smelly fish heads, all for nothing. The tomatoes tasted the same, maybe a bit worse. Gary swore it was the secret, just like Henderson swore by his “makray” ramps.
After about an hour of chasing runaway balls and Henderson explaining the mystical properties of his ramps, I’d had enough. My back hurt, I’d lost three balls in the hedge, and I still had no idea what “makray” was supposed to mean. We packed up the coffee cans and the weird ramps.
Honestly? Just stick to regular mini-golf. Or just putting on the lawn. This “makray” business felt like one of those things someone made up in their shed and convinced themselves was genius. Like Gary and his moon-phase fish heads. Some things are better left simple, you know?
Haven’t played “makray golf” since. Henderson still brings it up sometimes, but I just nod and change the subject to the weather. Saves me a sore back and lost balls.
