A Long Way to Go to the Tour
Its name sounds more sound effect than sport. Perhaps the noise a cat makes when it hacks a small fur ball.
Its etiquette and cute-sy protocol seem more sorority than skill. Take off your hat when shaking hands. Don’t walk through someone’s line. Don’t blast Phil Mickelson with an air horn as he tees off.
And its mind-numbingly, frustratingly, backbreakingly, weird fundamentals feel more punishment than pastime. Why would I walk all day, following a tiny, white ball that’s not even going where I want it to go? It’s not like it’s valuable. It’s not even edible.
Yet this is the sport I decided to launch my poor, thirty-something, unathletic little body headlorn into this summer.
There are a few reasons why. Golf conversations break out all the time at work. They speak of fairway woods and two-putting and all I can offer up is: “Remember when Happy Gilmore punched Bob Barker?”
It’s good for networking, as long as you’re not better than the egomaniac you’re trying to impress.
And then there’s Tiger Woods. I know he went major-less in 2009, but I enjoy watching him on Sundays. He’s in the red, adored by lemminglike masses. With one recent exception, the poor schlub paired with him usually wilts beneath the sheer awesomeness. I think to myself, “Maybe someday, I’ll sink a putt, pump my fist and exhibit a fraction of awesomeness.”
As an aside, my brother-in-law seems to possess the patience of a saint. Apparently, he wants to test that theory, and offered to help with my quest. He brought me to a semi-private club called Wentworth Hills in Plainville, Mass. Way too nice a place for me to hack up, but I figured the local groundskeeper could use a challenge.
On the first tee box, my mentor carefully pointed out the different strategies and nuances that were about to greet us. We discussed this club versus that club, how to set the tee so the top half of the ball sits above the clubface, how to aim for the area just in front of the ridge and near the striped stake so the second shot would be that much easier. All we had to do was advance the ball. Take a few practice swings. Breathe.
I selected. I set. I practiced, I exhaled, and I destroyed a bush 30 feet to the right. Physicists would have difficulty replicating the angle with which I sent this ball screaming into a ficus. I may have instantaneously killed an animal point blank. The only birdie to be had on this hole just exploded on impact. The ball didn’t even go forward. I would have had more success standing sideways.
On the next tee, I completely missed. Twice. It was like Tim Wakefield threw me a pitch, only the stupid thing was sitting in the same spot the whole time, mocking me.
I connected on the third tee — with the ground, just in front of the ball. At least I advanced something toward the hole, albeit a giant clump of shell-shocked sod.
And this is the game I launch myself into.
I’m told, no matter how bad your outing, there’s always one good shot that made the day worth it and makes you itch to get back out there. If you see a shot like that, please tell me what it looks like.
But dear friends, worry not. I promise to give this another go, and soon. Like it or not, this game with the strange name is still a sport.
