here is a social epidemic in this country that the public refuses to acknowledge. It has the power to seduce and destroy entire families, turning the gentlest of men into wrathful, maddened shells of their former selves, yet we pass it off as nothing. Those whom it swallows do whatever it takes to feed their addiction, yet we bury our head in the sand swearing it's just "recreational." Meanwhile the media shirks its responsibility, glorifying this lifestyle claiming "art imitating life." The moral cancer I am referring to, of course, is Golf.

It began innocently enough. A few drunkards in Scotland during the eighteenth century got tired of tending sheep, so they grabbed some crooked sticks and decided it would be great fun to hit rocks into gopher holes. Immigrants to the New World brought with them tales of this new game and the mysterious Scots who would slur, "Lookee'ere lads, 'ere's a courple o' gorlphers." Thanks to the settlers' untrained ears, the word "golfer" was derived.

For the first hundred years, everything was benign. The nation was in its infancy and there were hungry mouths to feed. Few landowners were willing to sacrifice that much fertile ground for such a silly pastime. Then came the industrial revolution. Productivity increased. Landowners decided they could do without a thousand or so acres. So they plowed up their tobacco and started swatting around dimpled ball bearings from their cotton gins. Fortunately the Civil War came along and ended up destroying much of the country, including many of these primitive golf courses.

There came a reconstruction a depression and two world wars. People had more important things on their minds. But eventually the economy started booming and self-indulgence followed. Country clubs began creeping into neighborhood after neighborhood. Suburban housewives assumed the problem was only happening far away in Floridian retirement communities. By the time the symptoms of their husbands' addictions came to light (anger, violent outbursts, drainage of the family's bank account for clubs and tee times), it was too late. Women's lib was still a few years away so many of these women were forced to remain in their abusive relationships.

I have seen what golf can do to a man (and select lesbian women). Guys I used to have fun with - partying, barhopping, stealing road signs - now won't leave the house because "The Masters is on." Oh I'll admit, I experimented in college like anybody else. Friends would invite me to go hit a bucket of balls on the weekend. I just said no for a while, but eventually the peer pressure got to me. I kept telling myself, "It's a social thing. As long as I never buy my own clubs, I'll be fine." But as we all know, driving ranges are merely gateways to harder golf courses. My wakeup call came on July 5, 1998. In a post-Fourth hangover, I woke up with a tiny pencil and scorecard in my breast pocket. Horrified with what I had done, I quit cold turkey then and there. I was one of the lucky ones.

Until recently, golf was strictly an affliction for older men. It was the best anti-golf message we could send our kids: half-bent geriatrics in plaid knickers popping Viagra and chasing a ball across acres of land. Now celebrities like Tiger Woods and Adam Sandler make kids think golf is cool. ESPN plays flashy graphics and rock and roll music during The U.S. Open. We see more Pro Shops on our streets than churches. Well, I say enough is enough. It's time for Americans to take our country clubs back.

While an act of congress would be a huge step in the right direction, healing must begin at home. Never forget, "Parents who golf, have children who golf." In my neighborhood, the local division of F.A.G.G. (Fathers Against Golfing Greens) meets every Thursday with the mission of converting our local golf courses into Civil War reenactment grounds. Our school is a proud sponsor of G.L.A.R.E. (Golf Lovers Abuse and Rehabilitation Education). We encourage our kids not to cave to peer pressure. No kid wants to feel left out, but hanging around with a bunch of golfers doesn't mean they have to act like them. "Be your own person," we encourage them. While everybody else is walking around the country club in khakis and polo shirts, show up in corduroys and a Pink Floyd tank top.

It's a humble start I'll admit, but the future is bright.