He knows that, for some inexplicable reason, putt-putt comes with go-carts, arcades and snotty kids running around with Fun Dip dripping from their fingers.

He knows that each course is a multiple-ER-visit-worthy trip hazard. He knows its courses are either designed by a mechanical engineer or a group of drunk monkeys.

He knows it’s a game that’s no fun with people who take it too seriously and, at the same time, a game that’s no fun with people who don’t take it seriously enough. He knows of festering holes that threaten with all sorts of festering diseases when he finally sinks a putt. He knows that someone will take an infinite number of practice strokes, lulling one into a stupor, until a younger someone will take a full baseball wind-up and snap one back into reality. He knows that in a game of putt-putt, it’s just as likely that you’ll get tetanus as a hole-in-one. Yes, the native knows that putt-putt is a game where your ball will at some point get stuck, dragged, eaten or drowned in some sort of windmill, dinosaur, shack, covered bridge or zombie tiki bar. Sure, they might brag about their putting skills on the “golf course,” but they haven’t played putt-putt with a native. I’ve trained too long and too hard for these moments.

I love it when out-of-towners think they can come to my very own Pirate’s Treasure Trove of Dilapidated Astro-Turf and Sun Damaged Plastic Boulders. And, if you’re like me, you’ll relish it. No matter how much you hate golf and all of its associates, at some point you’ll have to play putt-putt or goony golf (named after a flock of goonies who landed on a course, attacked, and flew off with two 13-year-old boys who were flapping their arms and squawking like idiots). To live anywhere in Florida is to live within a one-mile radius of a putt-putt golf course.

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