Please note the following precautionary statement: You may want to skip this column if you are offended by the following four-letter word—GOLF. There it is. I’m sorry if I have offended anyone.
Golf is a chronic seasonal affliction for which, in past years, I seemed to have a natural immunity. I have always been an outdoor person, enjoying hiking, fishing, camping, skiing, etc. But golfing never entered my mind as a worthwhile sport. When asked if I played golf, my response was quick, proud and derisive, “I have other things to do instead of chasing a little ball around with a stick. Besides, I’m not old enough to play golf.” So, when the golf scourge hit me, no one was more surprised than I.
I was minding my own business one summer evening about five years ago, when my husband asked if I wanted to go “hit a bucket of balls.”
“Ha, you must be joking,” I responded. “Me? I don’t think so.”
Not easily deterred, my husband coaxed, “Well, how about the putting green? You can putt some balls in the holes; it’s a lot like miniature golf.” He knows that I have always loved miniature golf. The bait was cast; my husband was patient. My face must have reflected interest. He continued.
“Yes, it’s just like miniature golf, but without the twirling windmills and laughing clowns. I was a little disappointed for a moment. No castles with drawbridges that go up and down over a moat? “Do you remember when we were dating?” my husband asked. He had set the hook. I was reeled in by a pleasant flashback to the 1950s, when drive-in movies, roller skating rinks, and miniature golf courses dominated the teen dating scene.
I had been good, very good, at miniature golf. Death spiral with a bank shot? No problem. This tame little golf course green would be a piece of cake with no bobbing heads or tunnels to divert me. “Let’s go!”
It had begun. I took lessons. Next, I subscribed to Golf Magazine and read the golf tips. I knew that I could master the sport if only I would loosen my grip, use the proper ball positions, keep my head down, stay still over the ball, keep my eye on the ball, swing without swaying, and use proper feet, shoulder, wrist, elbow, and hip placement. How difficult could it be?
Then, I began to watch golf tournaments on television. I knew I had a problem when I began taping tournaments that I would miss, then becoming inconsolable when I forgot to tape the U. S. Open.
I admit that I am addicted to the pleasure and the pain. Who else but a masochist would take up golf, anyway? It is a roller-coaster ride of emotion. Euphoria (good drive) gives way to despair (whiffed fairway ball), only to return to euphoria (decent chip to the green), and to despair again (missed 6-inch putt). And then, it’s on to the next hole to repeat the process.
I am already having withdrawal anxiety due to a “too busy” schedule (when I can’t play golf). Even the golf magazines do not satisfy me; I am a sick woman. I fret; I worry. When I get out on the course again, will I remember which part of my anatomy to stick out and which to hold in? Will I remember my grip, my swing, and which club to use?
Maybe I should just give it up. Yes, I think I will; performance anxiety can’t be good for me. Perhaps I will just give it up for now—maybe until next year. But, in the meantime, I wonder if I can still get an early tee time tomorrow if I call right now.
