Athletic Masochism

It's that time of year again: golf season.

Someone once described golf as a walk in the park, ruined. Well, I've taken innumerable ruined walks in the park over the last few years, and yet I keep returning, desperately hoping that the results will change, but knowing, deep-down, that they won't. Ever.

And sure enough, on my first few outings this spring, my drives, powered by a ragged, old man's swing, rarely extended beyond a majestic 175 yards. Except for the times that I whiffed. (I call those practice swings)

My iron game consists of shanks, worm-burners, and occasional arching shots that land, inextricably, in the thicket far beyond the green.

I lost six balls on one nine-hole stretch last year. I believe that's a club record.

My putting? Ahhh, my putting. You see, I've always believed that anyone can putt. Heck, a six-year-old can putt the ball through the windmill at the miniature golf course, so why should I spend any time on a skill that clearly requires so little....skill. That's been my philosophy.

So yesterday on the 13th green, I four-putted from 50 feet. On the 14th green, I three-putted from 16 feet. For you non-golfers out there, that's not good. A man with a blindfold, sitting in a wheel chair, could do better.

So there you have a summation of my golf skills. I'm the whole package.

Oh, I forgot to mention the time last year when I almost overturned my cart on the 16th fairway, or the two times my bag of clubs fell off the cart because I hadn't fastened the bag tightly enough, or the errant drive that nearly busted a window at the clubhouse, or the time I literally ran out of balls in the middle of a round because I had lost so many in the woods.

Oh, oh! And then there was the round when I lost my pitching wedge and my nine-iron because I had left them on separate greens. And how about the time the clubhead of my four-iron actually separated from the club shaft...and travelled farther than the ball?

All true.

I just love the game. By the way, I'm entered in the Alzheimers Invitational next weekend.

A Walk in the Woods Spoiled

It's that time of year again. I get out my golf clubs, stick them in the back of my car, and listen to them rattle back there for about a month or two before I finally summon the courage to bring them out to the golf course.

Where I proceed to embarrass myself time and time again.

I've taken lessons from three instructors over the past six years. A total of maybe six lessons, not much, but you'd think I would have improved by now. But no.

I still drive the ball 180-190 yards when I'm on.

I still slice my drives, oh, maybe 30 degrees.

I still regularly hit worm-burners off the fairway.

Chipping? Sometimes, line drives over the green. Sometimes, tiny pop-ups that never make it to the green. Sometimes more turf than ball.

Putting? I really haven't spent all that much time on it, and it's probably the best part of my game. Maybe there's a correlation there.

Actually, I know the reason. With every regular golf swing, I have this barely hidden fear that I'm going to miss the ball. It just seems so unlikely to me that you can pull your club, with its tiny clubface, waaaaay back, then swing it waaaaay forward and still manage to hit a tiny ball sitting on the ground. Seems to defy logic to me.

Now, with the putter, that's no problem. I know that every time, I'm going to make contact and probably in the "sweet spot". No fear of missing.

So that's my golf game. Mediocre at best. No, "mediocre" is my aspiration.

And yet I continue with this frustrating summer ritual, eternally hopeful that I'll some day discover the eslusive secret to good golf. There's a lesson here somewhere, I'm sure--something philosophical or religious.

But for now, I'll just grit my teeth, bite my tongue, swallow my curses (sometimes), and hope against hope that I'll one day break 100.

Is that asking too much?