An Ode to Golf

Golf is a beautiful sport.

It’s played outside with perfectly manicured courses. 

Every glance is a post card. 

You can take a breath, and concentrate on the birds soaring through the air. 

As we played on Saturday, a deer crossed the fairway on the 13th hole.

Golf is a game of friendship. 

There’s the moment when you meet at the clubhouse, the promise of a great round coming up.

Catching up on the week of life that was just put in the rear view.

Waiting for the guys behind you to finish up their conversation before standing over the ball, clearing your head, working on your mechanics.

Golf is a game you play against yourself.

Setting the ball on the tee, with the logo facing you. Just put the sweet spot of the club on the center of the ball.

Best feeling in the world to see the ball in the blue sky, soaring, to the middle of the short grass.

And you turn back to your buddies. 

Everyone is saying something. There is usually a fist bump or two as, in a long-standing foursome, you’re rooting for the guys you’re playing with.

If the shot isn’t a good one, there is compassion.

“You can still get in from there.”

“You’ll have a good look.”

Or, being familiar with their swing:

“You were fast there.”

There are lucky bounces. There are bad bounces. You’ll hit a good shot that ends up in a downhill lie.

“I deserved better.”

Then you’ll hit a perfect putt from 10-12 feet away that follows the perfect path to the waiting hole.

When the ball ends its journey just an inch from falling in there’s that sinking feeling that instead of writing down a 4 to mark the par, you’re stuck with the bogey.

I make time every round to venture into the woods, in my favorite spots, where I’ll pick up brand new golf balls that were left behind by strangers playing in front of you who couldn’t find it.

I love coming out of the woods with ten golf balls that I can split with the guys I’m playing with.

There’s the hot dogs, or the cheeseburger at the turn. 

A towel soaked in ice on a hot day so you can wipe away the sweat.

Commiserating with a golfer who is in the barrel.

“I’m strugggullling,” was something one buddy would say, and I would laugh every time.

I stood beside another golfer who asked me if I thought he could split the trees about 100 yards away and make it to the green.

He swung and hit the tree on the left.

“Try it again,” I said.

He was thrilled that I gave him permission to take another shot at it.

He adjusted his stance, swung, and hit the tree on the right.

Returned to the cart, turned to my grinning face.

“Remember when you hit two trees?” I asked.

Laughter.

There’s a lot of laughter.

The golfers in front of you are “horrible” or taking way too long.

“They think they’re on television.”

And then there’s a moment, in every round, where I think:

“We’re running out of holes.”

And finally, the fist bump at the end.

“What do we have for next weekend?”

Lucky there because we have a member of the foursome who makes the tee times.

A couple hours later, you replay the shots.

“My back is sore.”

“You hit it well.”

“How did that putt on 15 roll out?”

Golf is a perfect game.

One of the great loves of my life as I continue, for the 46th year in a row, to chase the one perfect shot, or the greatest round of my life.

An eternal quest.

And the greatest tribute I can give to the game is that when I’m playing, everything else in life fades to the background for 3 or 4 or sometimes 5 hours.

Nothing else matters.

Just chasing the ball, and hitting it into a hole.