Adrenaline Golf

How can we boost golf club membership numbers?
That's the question golf course managers throughout New Zealand are asking, as membership numbers continue to slide.
The Shady Acres club, in the backblocks of New Zealand, has come up with an exciting concept. I interviewed the entrepreneur who has managed to reverse the shrinking  membership trend.
"Well," said Fred, president, captain, treasurer and greenkeeper of Shady Acres golf club, "the problem is that as our older members kark it, there aren't enough young 'uns to replace them."
Fred pointed at an area behind the clubhouse that had a lot of crosses (made from golf clubs) on it.
"We've sold a lot of grave plots out back where we used to keep the fertiliser, but that's only a one-off source of income." He scratched his chin. "We had to come up with a way to make golf appeal to kids who sit on their arses all day, stare at a screen and blow things up or away."
I nodded. "Yes, it's a tough market to entice into the great outdoors."
Fred grabbed my arm. "Exactly! That's why we got on to all the social media we could cover and discovered that there is one thing which gets these kids (anyone under 30) outside." He nodded sagely. "A quick hit of adrenaline."
I extracted my arm and rubbed it. "You're going to give them guns and get them to shoot all the slow players?"
"Nope," said Fred, "even slow players are welcome, in these hard times."
I shrugged. "So ..."
Fred grabbed my other arm and dragged me towards the greenkeeper's shed. "Wait'll you see this," he said.
A shot of adrenaline coursed through my veins but, fortunately, Fred didn't undo any zips. He pointed to a pen of sheep. "There you have it. New Zealand's answer to Pamplona's running of the bulls."
I stared at the sheep. "I can't really see the similarity."
Fred let go of my arm and put his hand in his pocket. "Take a look at this."
I recoiled, but Fred merely pulled a camera out of his pocket.
Unfortunately, the battery was flat. He shoved the camera back in his pocket and pointed again at the sheep. "Running of the Rams Golf, coming to a course, near you!"
I stared at the sheep. "They don't even have horns."
"Of course not," said Fred, "they're Perendales."
"Oh?"
"New Zealand breed. Perfect for Running of the Rams Golf. We don't want the golfers to get gored. We need returning customers." He jumped into the pen and wrestled a ram closer. I peered over the railing.
"See," said Fred, "the high whithers and upright carriage of the head. And look at the well laid back shoulders and the spring in the pasterns. Combine that with a slight slope at the tailhead and you've got maximum drive from the hindquarters. This sheep is the closest animal you'll ever get to Spain's Pamplona bulls!"
I must have looked doubtful. Fred leapt out of the pen. "Get your golf clubs."
In spite of my protests of not being under 30 and therefore not needing a shot of adrenaline to enjoy my golf, Fred insisted. I stood uncertainly on the first tee. "When do you release the rams?"
Fred smiled. "Ahh, that's the secret. You won't know. Could be the first hole, could be the ninth."
After having doubts about Running of the Rams golf, I'm now a convert. It's amazing how being trampled by stampeding rams cures overswinging.