Because I’m not a sadistic parent, we didn’t keep an official score when my son and I golfed 18 holes earlier this month. It was his first time playing a full round of golf on large course.
The idea was to let him in on the game’s fun parts: cruising around in a golf cart, stocking up on Gatorade and a couple of hot dogs, and feeling the sun and breeze on our faces while sharing some laughs.
Who could ask for more on a summer morning?
As a bonus, my son even parred a hole, while at the same time I scored a double bogey (translation for non-golfers: he did great, and I didn’t).
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But The Boy, 13, also learned about the more frustrating aspects of golf, which is, frankly, “golf.”
Checking in on the Sheldons, the family buried in the shadow of Highmark Stadium in Orchard Park.
“Aarrghh!” he said, as he shanked one into the woods.
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I will paraphrase what he told me, because it cuts to the heart of what golf often feels like for us mere mortals who will never be on the PGA Tour, but who are nonetheless hooked on this big, weird game.
“Last week, I was hitting everything pretty good. And today, I feel like I’m doing the exact same thing but it’s not working anymore. What’s happening?”
Yes, I laughed out loud. “My condolences,” I said. “Sounds like you’re already a golfer.”
While we may know people who can always hit the ball beautifully, and have deadly aim when shooting at the green, the majority of us can’t do it the way we want to every single time. And some will drive themselves crazy while trying.
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To stay serene, I stick to a small number of rituals and habits. The first is to stop keeping score for a few rounds if I’m going through a slump. The other rituals are food-related: One Labatt Blue Light per 9 holes, and a hot dog at “the turn,” which is the halfway point of a round. The game is telling me to remain calm. How stressful can a sport be if it’s customary to order a hot dog mid-round at the on-course snack bar?
There are no snack bars located on a football field, or at center ice of a hockey rink. But people will still lose their cool, even when there’s nothing at stake except their own self-esteem. Have you ever seen a golf club in the woods and wondered how it got there?
I’m not saying I don’t understand. I’ve cursed myself after lining up a fairway shot and then instead of a solid thwack with a 5-wood, nicking the top of it, causing the ball to dribble and bounce away from me instead of soaring through the air. I’ve missed the ball completely and fallen onto my butt (give me a break, it was raining).
As my son discovered, there is often a wide gap between what we imagine we can do, and what we actually do.
I took a golf lesson not too long ago, and the instructor told me to hit a few balls so he could diagnose whatever flaws I have in my swing.
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“OK, the first thing I notice is that you’re probably not actually doing what your brain thinks you are doing,” he said. “I’m going to take a video of you now and it won’t look like you might expect it.”
He was correct. In my head, I’m Rory McIlroy. But really, I look more like a duck trying urgently to take off a wool sweater.
When I watched the video, I laughed. Then I sighed. Then I did what golfers do: I tried again. And that, in miniature, is the entire game.
Even when you know better, you can’t help but think the next shot will be the one. And sometimes, it is. Every so often, you hit one purely, like I did at my favorite driving range the other night out in Clarence. The ball leapt off the clubface with a satisfying “crack,” it climbed high and straight, and landed far away with a little roll. For one swing, golf feels like flying.
Those swings keep you coming back. But they also create a trap. Golfers convince themselves they are better than they really are, or worse than they really are. When I do keep careful score, probably every other round, I shoot in the low 90s. Any golfer will recognize that this is no boast. Shooting in the low 90s on an 18-hole golf course is, in my estimation, somewhere between “OK,” and “Not terrible for a weekend warrior.”
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Sure, I’d like to play better. But I’ve found a kind of peace in being ordinary at a game this hard.
I am looking forward to playing golf around Western New York this fall. The air is cool, the crowds thin out, the Bills are waiting for me on TV, and the leaves crunch under your shoes. Even the bad rounds are beautiful.
So I’ll keep showing up, with my two Labatt beers per round and hot dog at the turn. I will imagine I am one swing away from figuring it all out, and sometimes I’ll feel the satisfaction of noticing a slight improvement after weeks of practice. And I’ll nod encouragingly when my 13-year-old reminds me that, on at least one hole, he beat me fair and square. Perhaps the next time we head out together, he’ll beat me twice.
I will remind myself next time I can’t hit straight and it feels like it’s all falling apart: This is enough. It’s actually plenty.
Dan Higgins is an editor and columnist.
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