Milwaukee has one of the best park systems in the country. I learned that right after I moved here. There are bike trails and picnic areas and a nature center and volleyball courts and botanical gardens and walking paths and softball fields and water sports and, of course, geese galore. And a bunch of golf courses, from 9-hole beginner tracks to Brown Deer, the jewel of the system and former PGA Tour course.
There are a number of practice areas for golf as well, including full ranges at Brown Deer, Dretzka and Oakwood and a smaller one at Greenfield. Whitnall is among those that don’t have a range at the course, but there is a dedicated area for golf practice in Whitnall Park. It was here late this past summer that I had my first interaction with the Golf Gestapo.
I used to hit some short irons in an open area off of Root River Parkway just off 92nd Street. It was close to the office, never anyone there. The county must have decided that this wasn’t acceptable, since when I drove by this spring, there were dozens of little trees planted there. You didn’t have room to walk your dog there were so many trees. They could have just put up a sign that said “No Golf.” Might have saved some money.
Then when Green Fields Golf Range closed, I had nowhere to practice. Until I found the public area in Whitnall Park. This is a great spot where you could fit two football fields, to use an analogy from another sport. I believe it’s public since there is a sign that says “Practice Golf Area” with nothing else around but grass and trees. And more than a few deer, a family of which were observing me hit balls on that fateful day a few weeks ago, looking at me with disdain as if to say “You are nuts; eating grass is much more fun.” It is here where I ran afoul of the Golf Gestapo.
I was aiming out into the open area, with absolutely no one around, when out of the corner of my eye I saw an older gentleman approaching, in an ancient golf cap and flannel shirt. I was hitting the ball well, so I’m thinking, maybe he’s coming over to ask me for a tip. Not so much.
As he got closer, he screamed: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” As it seemed obvious I was hitting golf balls, I didn’t respond at first. So he continued: “Who the hell do you think you are?” My dander began to rise, just a tad, and I simply told him I was just minding my own business and hitting balls. I tried to turn away. He screamed: “Well, you’re hitting them in the wrong place!” As I perused the area and saw no one (the deer had scattered by now, realizing the Golf Gestapo had arrived), I couldn’t help tell him that I was under the impression this was a public park and I could hit balls wherever I damn well pleased. This enraged him to the point where he stuck his face next to mine and said: “You should stay away from here. You obviously don’t know the rules.”
Apparently, this gentleman and other members of his Gestapo make the rules, since this is obviously their one and only driving range. I was informed, quite forcefully, that the unpublished rules indicate when you are first, you hug the trees on either side of the area, leaving room for the rest of the Gestapo to cram their practice balls in. Who knew?
The epilogue is that I went back, after staying away for what I deemed an appropriate amount of time. Since I was first, I found a spot along the trees, leaving plenty of room for quite a few others as well as the deer. As the older gents began to arrive with their clubs and practice balls, one looked over, nodded and smiled. I was accepted!
I guess the moral of the story is simple: always play by the rules. Good advice, Golf Gestapo or not.
