wife, and I found myself conversing about gap wedges and fairway hybrids with persons I barely knew. At nights I lay awake reliving the day’s round, shot by shot, in self-lacerating detail.
A case could be made that I was hooked. Whether or not my game had actually improved was debatable, because I played in schizoid streaks that drew dumbfounded exclamations from even my most diplomatic friends. Nonetheless, after twelve months I was, at least on paper, where I’d hoped to be.
The USGA defines “a male bogey golfer” as “a player who has a Course Handicap of approximately 20 on a course of standard difficulty. He can hit tee shots an average of 200 yards and reach a 370-yard hole in two shots at sea level.”
By those magnanimous criteria, I qualified. My Course Handicap stood at 18 on a layout of higher-than-average difficulty. My tee shots, when they found the fairway, traveled 245 yards to 275 yards depending on the wind and turf conditions. Unless waylaid by water or waste bunkers, I could easily reach (and often overshoot) a 370-yard hole in two strokes. In sum, I had reached a level of play at which I’d assured my friends and loved ones that I would be content.
Yet I wasn’t. Every golfer is susceptible to the notion that he or she is scoring far beneath their potential, and many go to their graves clinging to this fantasy. The cruel truth is that most of us bog down in a stratum commensurate with our talent, mental fortitude and fitness.
Men of a certain age choose not to believe they’ve peaked, and I wasn’t alone in this delusion. The mass-advertisers who aim at golfers know well their target demographic—and it ain’t Orlando Bloom or Jake Gyllenhaal. Before I started playing golf again, I’d never even heard of Flomax; I thought a “weak stream” was a trout creek in autumn.
But flip open any golf magazine or turn on the Golf Channel, and you’re peppered with medical remedies for enlarged prostates, high cholesterol, arthritis pain and erectile dysfunction. Obviously, millions of guys like me are out there, laboring valiantly to piss, make love and whack a small white ball as well as we did when we were young. That four-hour hard-on about which we’re forewarned in the Cialis commercials is daunting to contemplate, but personally I’d be thrilled to keep my putter working for that long.
And I mean my putter.
As the mortal clock ticks down, the window of opportunity in which it’s physically possible to post a memorable golf score grows narrower. I’m reminded of this in the dead of night when awakened by the twinge in my bad knee or the irksome throb in my right hip, which I fear will someday require surgical attention. Many people play the game until they’re quite old and they have a blast, but par inevitably becomes a stranger. The trick, as David Feherty says, is learning not to care.
But care I do. The most insidious thing about golf is the one or two fine moments that it bequeaths every round. On my one-year anniversary I stumbled to a dreary 96, thanks to a feud with the new Cobra driver. A neutral scanning of that uninspiring scorecard would show nothing whatsoever to celebrate.
Yet instead of fuming about the five shots that I’d stupidly knocked into the water, I kept replaying in my mind’s eye the impossible sidehill wedge that I’d nearly holed from the rough on No. 8—unquestionably a freak event, yet I chose to appraise it as an omen of future glory.
That’s the secret of the sport’s infernal seduction. It surrenders just enough good shots to let you talk yourself out of quitting.
Day 367
Leibo says my borrowed SasQuatch driver looks like a bicycle helmet on a stick. He advises me to make up with my Big Bertha. I do as he says, and rip the next five drives straight as an arrow.
“Know what your problem is?” Leibo muses. “You’re a psycho. Your head explodes out here.”
As for my huge and complicated blue putter, he says it resembles a psychedelic
A case could be made that I was hooked. Whether or not my game had actually improved was debatable, because I played in schizoid streaks that drew dumbfounded exclamations from even my most diplomatic friends. Nonetheless, after twelve months I was, at least on paper, where I’d hoped to be.
The USGA defines “a male bogey golfer” as “a player who has a Course Handicap of approximately 20 on a course of standard difficulty. He can hit tee shots an average of 200 yards and reach a 370-yard hole in two shots at sea level.”
By those magnanimous criteria, I qualified. My Course Handicap stood at 18 on a layout of higher-than-average difficulty. My tee shots, when they found the fairway, traveled 245 yards to 275 yards depending on the wind and turf conditions. Unless waylaid by water or waste bunkers, I could easily reach (and often overshoot) a 370-yard hole in two strokes. In sum, I had reached a level of play at which I’d assured my friends and loved ones that I would be content.
Yet I wasn’t. Every golfer is susceptible to the notion that he or she is scoring far beneath their potential, and many go to their graves clinging to this fantasy. The cruel truth is that most of us bog down in a stratum commensurate with our talent, mental fortitude and fitness.
Men of a certain age choose not to believe they’ve peaked, and I wasn’t alone in this delusion. The mass-advertisers who aim at golfers know well their target demographic—and it ain’t Orlando Bloom or Jake Gyllenhaal. Before I started playing golf again, I’d never even heard of Flomax; I thought a “weak stream” was a trout creek in autumn.
But flip open any golf magazine or turn on the Golf Channel, and you’re peppered with medical remedies for enlarged prostates, high cholesterol, arthritis pain and erectile dysfunction. Obviously, millions of guys like me are out there, laboring valiantly to piss, make love and whack a small white ball as well as we did when we were young. That four-hour hard-on about which we’re forewarned in the Cialis commercials is daunting to contemplate, but personally I’d be thrilled to keep my putter working for that long.
And I mean my putter.
As the mortal clock ticks down, the window of opportunity in which it’s physically possible to post a memorable golf score grows narrower. I’m reminded of this in the dead of night when awakened by the twinge in my bad knee or the irksome throb in my right hip, which I fear will someday require surgical attention. Many people play the game until they’re quite old and they have a blast, but par inevitably becomes a stranger. The trick, as David Feherty says, is learning not to care.
But care I do. The most insidious thing about golf is the one or two fine moments that it bequeaths every round. On my one-year anniversary I stumbled to a dreary 96, thanks to a feud with the new Cobra driver. A neutral scanning of that uninspiring scorecard would show nothing whatsoever to celebrate.
Yet instead of fuming about the five shots that I’d stupidly knocked into the water, I kept replaying in my mind’s eye the impossible sidehill wedge that I’d nearly holed from the rough on No. 8—unquestionably a freak event, yet I chose to appraise it as an omen of future glory.
That’s the secret of the sport’s infernal seduction. It surrenders just enough good shots to let you talk yourself out of quitting.
Day 367
Leibo says my borrowed SasQuatch driver looks like a bicycle helmet on a stick. He advises me to make up with my Big Bertha. I do as he says, and rip the next five drives straight as an arrow.
“Know what your problem is?” Leibo muses. “You’re a psycho. Your head explodes out here.”
As for my huge and complicated blue putter, he says it resembles a psychedelic
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