No matter how many ground balls I hit from the fairway or
out-of-bounds slices of the tee (a Mulligan, of course), there’s
something about the sport that is addictive, refreshing, and lures
me back onto the course time and time again.
My golf clubs are 11 years old – a 17th birthday surprise.
I don’t have a 9-iron anymore. The shaft was bent about seven degrees in a fit of rage four years ago when I, for some reason, thought I should be able to shoot a respectable score after not being on the course in 11 months. High expectations are a curse.
The poor club was an innocent bystander in an unfortunate golf-bag-tossing incident.
Until last year, I didn’t own golf spikes. My putter was my great grandfather’s, Tiny Papa, decades ago. The clubface has more chips in it than a bag of Doritos, but it’s a comfortable fit.
At the range last summer, the club head on my 5-wood broke off, flew skyward and landed with a thump on the second level of the driving range platform. I sheepishly, hit my remaining golf balls and skedaddled. The club head was never retrieved.
I play my best on nine-hole courses – the Rancho Del Pueblo Masters, and the Gavilan Golf Course Open is how my friends and I refer to our golf outings. I have twice bested a field of three with 6-over-par performances.
No matter how many ground balls I hit from the fairway or out-of-bounds slices of the tee (a Mulligan, of course), there’s something about the sport that is addictive, refreshing, and lures me back onto the course time and time again.
In awe, actually, more in a chuckling disbelief, I watched Rory McIlroy do what he did to the beast that is Congressional Country Club. At 22, he calmly obliterated the rest of the field to win the 11th U.S. Open. Accurate with his irons, effective with the putter and stone faced in execution.
Jealousy.
It might be 10 years before I break 80, and there is a solid chance that will never happen. At this point, breaking 90 is a bit of a stretch. Nevertheless, golf will always be there on a lazy Sunday afternoon whether I’m parked on the couch watching the final round of a major or parked beside a tee box.
Nothing is more rewarding than hitting the green from the fairway 170 yards out, rolling the ball inside 15 feet of the pin. Everything I planned in my head as I imagined the shot came to fruition. Everything is right.
At those moments, my senses are magnified. I hear all the birds, the breeze, that weird hum that’s always there even though you’re alone. I notice how green the grass is and how bright and magnificent the sun shines upon the landscape.
The only interruption in these times of bliss – a mess of a drive on the ensuing hole. Oh, well that’s golf. Got to love it.
