(There should be an introduction here or at least some kind of transition, but no, I'm just going to start compiling random golf stories. Perhaps later some organizing rhyme or reason will emerge.)
I play golf. More often though, golf plays me. Certainly, it reveals to me the difference between my fantasy of myself and what I actually do in that green arena. In my soul, I am a scratch golfer. As a child, I developed a swing. It matched my inner sense of what was beautiful about golf. However, living with a small backyard, I wasn't hitting real golf balls, just plastic practice balls. On the course, I had a wicked slice off the tee and a tendency to look up and duff fairway shots, but in my backyard I was perfection. Shot after shot would rise majestically and then bounce off the brick wall, and the occasional window, of my home. Only my mother, looking through the kitchen window over the sink would see me. My father saw the slicer and the duffer and the grumpy kid who did not want to wake in the dark to then drive an hour for some early morning tee time somewhere outside of Chicago.
There was no effort involved in my backyard practice, just the joy of the swing, the sound of wood and plastic contact, the swooshing of the club cutting through air, and then the watching of the trajectory from the effortless follow-through position. On the course, there was effort and trying, which often led to dark frustration, lost balls, and strained exchanges with my father. Half a lifetime later, more than any other kind of success, I would like my father to have seen me play a round of golf at or near even par. It's the distance between the gracefulness I imagined my mother saw from that window and the slump-shouldered kid trudging behind my father on the fairway that I've been trying to shorten and bridge.
I remember once being teamed up with a 92 year old marvel named Jerry at a Tucson municipal course. He had a cart and invited me to strap my bag on it and ride with him. He wore a floppy fisherman's hat, was wiry, and had a Sam Snead swing. He didn't hit the ball very far, but was in the fairway all 9 holes. Before each shot, he would rest the end of his club against his midsection, so that he could rub his watery blue eyes. I liked him immensely, but it scared me to think of him driving on the streets. On the course, I enjoyed him driving me around. He was a crop-duster when he was younger. I imagined he was quite the character then. When I met him he was someone who was able to shoot his age or better, the mark of life well-lived in the world of golf. The only thing he said he would have done differently in life was to stretch more. Coming from an elder, I wanted to read layers of meaning into his words. Stretch more. Reach more. Try for more. Be flexible in all things, but really I think he just meant the physical act of stretching.
Years ago, I attempted to start a business called YogaGolf. It was based on the philosophy of joining the masculine doing and the feminine being sides through yoga movements and contemplative golf. I took Jerry's words as a confirmation that I was on the right track, but I didn't want the job of creating YogaGolf; I wanted to live it. I noticed that Jerry still kept score, still kept thinking he could do better the next day. Watching him play nine, and hearing his history with this course, I started to wonder if that efforting was what I wanted or not. His best rounds were in his past, but some part of him still believed in that elusive round that all golfers imagine, but few achieve.
From time to time, I play with a group of guys that really enjoy each other's company. Although score is kept, mulligans off the tee box are freely given. We want each other to be happy with that all-important first shot. There is only a mild streak of competitiveness among us. We truly root for each other, discussing shot selection and especially putts and how they might break on difficult greens. We even have a maximum number of strokes per hole allowed. It used to be 8; it has gone down to 7. With all this generosity and bending of the rules of golf, one would think that our best golf scores would occur when we are playing together. Well, it certainly isn't true for me. The permissiveness keeps me from sustaining the concentration a consistent round of golf requires. Besides, any score achieved that way would forever have an asterisk besides it. What we do together is play golf. In other words, when we're together we have relinquished some aspect of the quest. Companionship has moved ahead of competitiveness. Practice rather than perfection is achieved.
Thinking about this foursome, and thinking about Jerry, I project two possible paths for myself. It is easy to imagine myself an old man who goes as a single to various golf courses. As a single, my attention would be on my game alone. Also, as a single, I could just show up when it suited me and be teamed up with the inevitable groups who were missing a player. Golf would then fit more often into the rest of my life. I also imagine that this is the way that most connects to that solitary child practicing in his backyard.
However, the world of my father was the world of foursomes and laughter. He was still playing golf every Sunday (in season) at 80. Cigars were smoked, jokes told, perhaps a flask or two emptied, and certainly bets were made. However, my father's golf game never improved, no matter what he did, and, bless him, I don't think he really cared. He had come down clearly on the side of companionship in this life. He truly loved the society of men more than the sport.
My hunch is that Jerry loved the game more, but I'm just guessing and projecting. Perhaps the place to be in this spectrum of possibilities, just like on the golf course, is straight down the middle of the fairway, without the hook of excess, nor the slice of effort.
