Yesterday... I GOLFED. Most people wouldn't understand the significance of that two-word statement, but then again, most people don't have the personal history with the sport that I do. There's a reason it's in capital letters. When I say it in my head, it's in a loud, booming voice that echos and shakes the walls of my brain until the plaster cracks and the picture frames fall to the floor.
I. GOLFED. Boom!
My lackluster golf career began the day I turned nine years old, and my father gifted me with my own set of clubs, a box of neon pink golf balls, and a beautiful lavender canvas golf bag. His eyes shone with pride as I slung the bag over my shoulder and pranced out to the backyard to immediately begin taking practice swings. It was exciting! Being old enough to golf was kind of a big thing in my family, and I knew my dad was excited to have a little golfer of his own. We'd go to the driving range together, or off to the local nine-hole course to spend time together and hone my skills. It soon became obvious however, that I had no skills. Even for a gawky kid, my golf game was frightfully sub-par. (No pun intended.) But I kept at it. Over the next couple of years I took lessons, played in some small tournaments, and continued to play occasionally with my dad and younger brother, who was now also old enough to play on the local courses. Every time I swung a club it was with more and more spite. I truly despised golf. I was terrible. And worse than being terrible was the fact that each time I played it was no less terrible than the last time had been. I wasn't getting any better, and I really had no desire to. I didn't have any idea why my dad liked this game. Hauling a backbreaking load of clubs up and down hills of scratchy grass while the sun scorched my face and the mosquitoes and the no-see'ems relentlessly attacked from all sides? Chasing down that tiny white devil-ball that, no matter how many practice sessions, no matter how many pointers, no matter how my mind begged- simply refused to go the direction that I tried to hit it? This was supposed to be fun? Were they kidding?? Worst. Game. EVER!!! I'd rather watch paint dry. So I started turning down Dad's invitations to play. I let him take my brother to the courses without me, and I opted to stay home and read, do homework, do housework, do anything. I hated being a disappointment to my father, but I hated golf more.
The last straw came in the form of the first and only 18-hole tournament I ever played. Dad had informed me that a co-worker's daughters were playing and they needed a fourth for their team. One of them was in my grade at school, so I said ok, more as a favor to him than anything. It wasn't my first choice of how to spend a Saturday, but how bad could it be, right? Maybe it would be fun.
WRONG. It was AWFUL. Literally one of most humiliating experiences of my young life. I still remember the smell of the grass. It was this awful, pungent, suffocating smell that radiated in waves from the ground and made my entire body itch. I remember staring down at my feet, trudging up and down the fairways, wishing I'd worn different shoes. The nail of my big toe was wearing through a thin spot of canvas on my sneaker, and I vividly recall watching it grow to a gaping hole as the day wore endlessly on. Making matters worse was the fact that I'd had no idea that this was a fairly serious tournament. The girls I was teamed up with looked perfectly at home on the course, shining brightly in their pristine polo shirts and smartly pressed khaki shorts. They had big fancy golf bags that stood at attention in their stands, and wore actual golf spikes. I'd shown up in a t-shirt. My purple bag, once a happy shade of lilac, was now dirty from being thrown to the ground countless times. The shoulder strap was dingy from so many afternoons spent resting against my sweaty neck. Everything about me felt cheap and grimy. I was way out of my league here. They girls were nice enough to me, and since I was personally holding up the entire tournament with each and every hole, they started mercifully letting me stop taking swings at 20. At some point, I think I blacked out. I have no recollection of finishing the tournament- I'm not even sure I DID finish. I know the other girls did. They all played golf in high school, and one of them would eventually go on to become one of the few female golf pros in the country. For me, it was it was just a really, really bad day. And it was the last time I'd swing a club for the next 18 years.
What instigated the change in my opinion of golf? Nothing really. I still find it stuffy and intimidating, and the scars that golf inflicted on my childhood are everlasting. However, it seems that I'm practically the only person I know who doesn't golf. My friends, my family, my co-workers, everyone I know thinks golf is just fabulous, so perhaps it was time for me to give this "gentleman's sport" another chance. I started slow, called up my father and with a deep breath asked him if he'd take me to the driving range sometime. Of course he was fairly overjoyed (he'd been waiting for this call for nearly two decades), and we went out on a nice morning to hit a few balls. To my surprise, I actually hit some of them pretty respectably. Dad was sweet and encouraging, full of compliments on my form, and reassurances that even the pros have trouble with their backswing. All in all, the experience was a good one, and I surprised myself by honestly enjoying it. I made it a point to include "playing a game of golf" on my 2012 New Year's Resolution list, and when the opportunity presented itself to play in a not-so-serious tournament with some co-workers, I decided this was my chance. Armed with a polo and matchign argyle socks, I was ready. The time had come.
My return to the game of golf was heralded with less than ideal weather. Chilly, drizzly, with gale-force winds gusting from every direction. It didn't matter which way we turned, or how many trees we tried to hide behind, there was no escaping the tornadic conditions. The wind sent our hats flying, swept away our score cards, and chilled us to the bone. It was pretty rough, but the beverage cart provided some ease to the pain. We drank enough to stay warm, and coincidentally, it was enough to make me forget that golf was once my enemy. I was able to play terribly yet still enjoy the time with my friends. Hit the ball in the water? Oh well, grab another one. Miss an easy putt? Not a big deal. Fall out of the cart once or twice? No one cares. The realization that our group was holding up the teams behind us (flashback!!!) combined with the loss of our score cards, and the fact that two of my foursome had become engaged in some sort of domestic quarrel led to our team calling it quits after about 10 holes. No matter. The smile stayed on my face for the remainder of the evening. I felt I'd really, truly achieved something. I realize that most people wouldn't consider playing terrible golf and quitting in the middle of a tournament anything worth writing home about, but for me? This was momentous! EPIC! A milestone. I could go to bed knowing that I'd accomplished a personal goal, and finally beat the golf demons that had been haunting me for so many years.
In short: I came. I golfed. I conquered.
