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I have always considered myself to be fairly athletic.

Nothing that yielded too many Division I scholarship offers or more than late night dreams of a professional athletic career, but I always seemed to have a knack for most sports. Watching, playing, even reading I am a self-proclaimed sports nut who enjoys all sports; well almost all.

Soccer, basketball and lacrosse were my main focuses from elementary through high school, with bouts in fast-pitch softball, volleyball, track and field and even golf; the latter of which has been my enemy since those summers in the junior golf league at Oak Glenn in sixth and seventh grade.

Despising golf turned me into a black sheep of sorts in the family.

Both my brothers golfed in summer leagues and with friends, my mom and dad were in their respective men’s and women’s golf league and every summer a family golf tournament always left me out of the foursome, instead baby-sitting nephews and cousins whose golf skills probably equal my own.

But moving up to “God’s Country,” I have decided to give golf another swing (pun intended) with the hopes of not only becoming a player that my parents aren’t embarrassed to hit the links with, but hopefully improve my patience and decline my opposition toward the sport.

The improvements started Friday, where I hit the driving range with borrowed clubs at Madden’s. Splitting a bucket of balls, I found my frustration creeping up time and time again. The problem with frustration and golf is the fact that, while in my experience of other sports where you can take frustrational grievances out on the field or court without hurting your overall score, in golf it really only hurts you.

Missed swings while cursing the white ball that hadn’t moved from in front of me in five tries wasn’t exactly going to help my score, or attitude toward golf, when I was out on an actual course.

Whether it be the three wood, four iron or driver, I just couldn’t get a handle on it. After hitting — or attempting to hit — more than 40 balls I would safely say that roughly three were decent shots — and that’s being kind to myself.

I jumped for joy and puffed my chest out in pride when the ball went in to the air and more than once considered breaking my club and hawking it in to the woods to never look back at the game.

But perseverance will prevail over my lack of patience for golf, and I intend to hit the driving range at least once a week and will be taking golf lessons in high hopes of becoming more than just a mini golfer. Feel free to pass along your suggestions as well, I can use all the help I can get.

JESSI PIERCE, staff writer, may be reached at 855-5859 or Follow her on Twitter at (@jessi_pierce).