Although there is some debate, the line that golf is a good walk, spoiled, is generally attributed to Samuel Clemens a/k/a Mark Twain. The same quote is also the title of a best-selling book on professional golf by author John Feinstein. The cover of the book depicts a golfer (who it is escapes me) kneeling on the green, head in hands, having apparently, just missed an important putt. The golfer's body language conveys the general feeling I get somewhere around my fifth shot on the first hole when I'm hoping and praying that I will be effective enough to remain in single digits for that hole.
As with s number of other things in my life, I came by golf later in life than most. Oh, sure, my parents took me playing miniature golf when I was a kid. (Not often, though, my temper and inability to cope with anything less than perfection as a child made the outings trying.) In high school, several of my closest friends played but I avoided it, partly for fear of having to ask my mother to spend money on golf clubs. In college, I tended to view golf in a similar manner to bridge: if I get into it, I will spend WAY too much time and effort playing. (That, by the way, did not stop me from learning bridge but that's a sad tale for another day.) The summer I graduated, I began playing tennis and that seemed to meet the need for a warm-weather social sport so gold receded even further in my consciousness.
There were some times I was tempted to give it a try. These were generally dispensed with by something that alerted me to the fact that maybe it wasn't such a good idea. One example is when I was in the Charleston, WV Jaycees. We were attending a quarterly regional meeting held at a state park resort. A group of us went out one morning in a misty rain to play nine holes. Well, they were playing nine holes. I was just walking along as a kibitzer. They kept trying to get me to take a shot and finally I gave in. The ball was lying fairly close to the middle of the fairway. One of them handed me a long iron. I had watched their form and had seen golf plenty of times on TV so I had a clue about how to swing. I took my stance, addressed the ball and swung. The divot, which was larger than some islands in the Bahamas, went farther than the ball. When the laughter died down and we replaced the divot, I resolved that there was no need to ever try it again.
During the dark retail sales period of my life, I was working for an appliance and electronics retailer and happened to wait on a couple. The gentleman happened to recognize my name from something totally unrelated in the legal field. We began talking and one thing led to another and we became friends. They were both avid golfers and they invited me to play. Unfortunately, I had to admit that I had never played. He offered to introduce me to the game but I gently demurred. But it got me thinking and within a few weeks, I had walked into Golf Warehouse and purchased an inexpensive set of clubs and the minimum accoutrements. This came as a great surprise to my wife, not the least of which is that I seldom spend money in three digits without consulting her first. It was, however, okay with her and I proceeded to take my shiny new clubs to a local driving range.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. I suppose we all have the fantasy that one day we will pick up a new endeavor and, lo and behold, we find out we’re a natural. Well, let me say, golf was not one of those things for me. I have played baseball and softball from early youth and know the dictum that swinging to hard can be bad. Why this did not percolate through in golf is beyond me. But I kept trying to muscle up and blast the shots as far as I could. Much of the time I would swing and miss, a rather embarrassing thing when the ball is just sitting there waiting for you. Other times, I would hit the ball and it would dribble over the edge. And the times I did manage to get a good clean shot, the ball generally went curving off to the far right.
The first round I played with my friends was nice in that it was pleasant to be playing with friends. It was, however, an exercise in futile frustration. When I did manage to hit the ball well enough from the tee, I discovered that handling irons is a bit different than woods. And actually playing on a course confronts you with the necessity of playing short irons and wedges. This is when I discovered the worst part (worst being merely a relative term) of my golf game. I am more or less okay with woods and long irons and I can kind of putt okay. But give me a short iron or wedge and all bets are off. My short game, in a word, sucks!
So, having survived the agony of looking like a fool on the course (mercifully it was only nine holes), I decided that a lesson or two might be in order. The pro at the shooting range near us was very patient with me. The first thing he asked was why I thought it was necessary to swing as hard as I could every time. I answered that I wasn’t aware that I was. Once I cut down on my effort, I seemed to make better contact. He also noticed that the dreadful slice I had was probably because I was keeping my wrists stiff. These were actually two very valuable observations.
So armed with these insights, I proceeded to get out and play as much as possible. The golf course in our town is private but has an agreement that any town resident can get a card to play at certain designated times without being a member. The only downside to this is that I had no one with whom I could play. I hated being paired or teamed up with other people I didn’t know, especially because my game was so embarrassingly bad.
Here are the things I’ve discovered about golf as I play it:
I am an expert at hitting a ball, from any lie, into any water hazard that exists on the course. The local club has a nice little duck pond at the end of the fairway on the second hole. If I try to lay up, I hit too far and ker-plunk. If I try to hit over it, too short and ker-plunk. I have become extremely adept at using the extendable ball fisher-outer thingy.
If I am using a short iron or a wedge, if the ball goes straight, it is either way too far or way too short. If it goes the correct distance it sprays well right or well left. Achieving the correct range and azimuth are a matter of pure coincidence that rarely happens.
I am great at hitting balls onto paths causing them to bounce very high and generally out of bounds.
If there is a sand trap, I will often find it. If there are two or more, I am very good at hitting from one into another, if I manage to hit the ball out of the first one.
I have developed several methods of determining how successful an outing I have had. The first method, and the far more idiot proof one, is this: If I find more balls in the rough than I lose, it is a successful day. The second, and more problematic, is if I can stay in single digits for every hole I play, it is a successful day. Combining both goals is a rare, but occasionally achievable treat. (A friend gave me an incredible gift for Christmas after hearing me describe this: Golf Ball Finder Glasses. I can’t tell you how well they work because I haven’t had a chance to try them out since she gave them to me.)
Have I had any real successes at playing? I can tell you that I have actually had two pars and a birdie! The birdie came in my second year of playing on a par 4 on the back nine of the course in my town. It was a case of coincidentally putting together three good shots in row on the same hole. The putt was a two-footer and unless you have been in the situation of knowing that if you sank this putt you would win the Masters, you have no idea how much pressure I felt. I still have the ball as a trophy.
What else has happened to me? Well, there was the day it started thunder-storming when I was on the back nine. At the hole next hole there was a small copse of trees. I figured that I’d sit in the copse and wait out the storm and continue on, especially because I didn’t have an umbrella with me. Seems it wasn’t just an isolated thunderstorm. After a half hour of sitting in the woods I realized it was not going to let up. And of course I was at the farthest point away from the clubhouse. I got very, very wet and my car was the last one in the parking lot.
There was the day I took several balls to our backyard along with my pitching wedge. Our backyard was worse than most roughs so I figured it was a good place to practice chipping. Recall that I seldom, if ever, get distance and direction correct with a wedge. On this one particular chip, I got them BOTH wrong and the ball smashed the plate glass window in our dining room. That was the end of that in the backyard.
There was the day I was matched up with three people I didn’t know on the course in my town. They said that I should tee off first on the first hole. I teed up the ball, took a couple practice swings, addressed the ball and swung…and watched the ball soar into the air…and land behind us. As bad as that was, that was the high point of the first three holes. I said goodbye after the third and just gave up and went home.
There was the day that I plopped a shot into the pond on the second hole of the local course. I dropped a ball as the rules say…and promptly plopped that one into the pond. Four more times I followed the rule until I said, the hell with this and threw the ball over the pond…except I didn’t throw it hard enough and it landed on the edge of the bank and the backspin rolled it into the pond. Fortunately, I was playing on my own that day.
I keep asking myself why I put myself through this aggravation. The sad answer is that somewhere amid all the crappy, misdirected, mishit, shanked, hooked, sliced or just plain missed shots, there is always one golden shot that feels perfect. Not only does it feel perfect, it is perfect. For me, this often happens with a wood or long iron. I swing and watch the ball go straight, long and perfect. At the instant of contact, the feel is just perfect. And I tell myself that I can do this more often and my game will improve. And the memory of that golden shot is what I remember when all the aggravation of the every other shot has faded.
Golf, to me, is like Charlie Brown trying to kick the football when Lucy is holding it. We both keep thinking that the next time is the time it will all come right. And we allow ourselves to be talked into giving it one more try. And we line up and know that this time we will succeed where all the other times we failed. And sure as sh*t, Lucy pulls that ball away and we wind up flat on our backs wondering WHY!!!!
