March 23, 2005
As I gaze out my window I see the branches of the trees are still void and empty fingers waving leafless in the still cool breeze. The grass lies lifeless and without a hint of the green that is sure to spring forth when the warmth arrives. It is not a scene that sparks visions of spring, but the change in seasons will come with just a few more spins of the clock.
Yesterday, my warm weather memories were initiated by a call from my brother. You see he lives on the golf course. Actually he lives in the city, but between the dawn of each day and blowing of work’s final whistle, he brings shape to the landscape of a suburban oasis. Meticulously trimming the greens, taming the ominous rough, sculpting God’s greenest earth into a softly painted portrait he readies for the graceful swings and patient thought of the golfing faithful. And because he is also patient and kind, he allows hacks like me into his wonderland as well.
I am growing each year to appreciate the game more and more. I have always had an appreciation for the beauty of the land and what carefully trained hands are capable of doing with it. Patience is the thing I lack and the element of my golfing character I am seeking to develop. This lack of calmness when approaching the targeted result has long been my downfall in the activities of fishing and billiards as well.
When it comes to golf, I am most certainly a novice having swung the tools of the links a number of times that have been very few and far between. I have found the game to be a great tamer of ego. Even the professionals of this thinking man’s game find themselves in the rough with some regularity. I, the wise consumer of an occasional round, have always gotten my money’s worth. It is calculated fact that I always take full advantage of as many strokes per dollar as anyone on the course.
One of my first trips to the course was with a grandmother who had become a regular participant and a cousin who was accustomed to some practice. They were certainly the better half of our foursome. They were joined by me and a bag full of mismatched clubs and my grandfather who, by the similarity in efficiency of our games, was as much a golfer as I was.
On that day I would shoot a 99. I am told that is quite an adequate score on a day of 18 holes, but my taking the same number of strokes on a day of nine is not impressive. On that afternoon, I would swing often and dodge a dimpled white ball grandfather sent towards a concrete bridge support. Equal and opposite reaction in this situation had four bodies clutching for the green grass beneath us in a shot that landed dangerously close to the spot from which it left.
Many years, but not as many rounds later, my brother invited me out for an afternoon round and I was excited simply to spend the time together. Eighteen holes and one birdie later (it was a goose that I hit) I sought a calculator to tabulate my final score. I was much closer to 150 than 100 and held to my theory of getting the most swing for the money.
I found comfort in the fact that I had managed to entertain my patient and coaching sibling. Pride filled my whole being as I connected with what felt like the most solid swing of my limited golfing life. I turned with a smile, heard laughter from behind and was soon startled by a heavy splash in the creek running just feet in front of me. Our second outing would see me shave 26 strokes from my score now nearer 125 than 100, but still a marked improvement. I would finish the round again with one birdie (this time a duck).
I am learning to appreciate the poetry of a game that holds much room for my personal improvement. A game of great intricacy; a game of peace and quiet. A game where a man must be at his best for it is he, and no one else, who holds his final sporting fate in his hands. It is a game played without pads and helmets, though if you see me pulling up to a course near you, you might consider wearing one.
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