I came to golf after spending my youth doing other things. I regret that. I think I might be a better golfer if I had taken it up when my body was slimmer, more flexible, and not quite as settled. I'm stretching the word fully when I say I'm a golfer; I should say I play golf. But, given all the excuses I can scrape up for why my game isn't better, I'm happy that I discovered golf at all. I'm not terribly competitive when it comes to golf. I enjoy playing. I love to be out on a golf course with a friend who isn't there to embarrass or destroy me. We talk, joke around, tell stories, and solve the problems of the world. Sometimes we hit the ball well. Sometimes we don't. We do keep score, but it's never posted or added to a handicap list. I don't need someone to give me a handicap; I'm well aware of my handicaps without a second opinion.
I suppose I'm thinking about golf right about now because I'm tiring of winter. It hasn't been a terribly hard one in Providence, but I'm ready for it to be over. As I listen to the reports of the huge snow storm hitting the Mid-Atlantic area I feel the pain. That rascal, Phil, from Punxatawny, hasn't done my mood any good this week.
At this point, golf is a romantic fantasy. A good distance away from my last golf game I can afford to be romantic. But it won't be long before I remember the frustrations of the game. Chief among them is that for some strange reason I lose balls in the most unlikely places. Usually right on the fairway. I'm not half bad at hitting the fairway. Maybe that's because I don't have a powerful swing, so my ball goes a hundred yards or so down the fairway and then sits there rubbing its bruises, waiting to be hit again and again until it eventually lands on the green.
I gave up a long time ago thinking about "driving the green." I decided to become one of those players who is happy to take two or three swipes at the ball, take a double put, and settle for bogey or double bogey. Sometimes I hit a par, but usually not. I would be very happy to be a consistent bogey player.
But, back to the ball. I hit it from the tee. Spot the location on the fairway, pick up my bag and walk to the spot where I saw it land, and discover that my ball is not there. It isn't even close to there. Sometimes it is yards away from where I saw it land. It has to be something about the way my eyes work. Or maybe it is a symptom of the artist mindset I own; specifics and details are not in my skill set. I think in more ambiguous terms. Whatever it is, I lose a lot of balls out there on the fairway, right in front of my eyes.
And the idea that fairways are safe...it isn't true. They forgot to teach me about such things as sand traps, ponds,(shudder) brooks and streams, bushes and small trees, and other things so casually referred to as "hazards." I know them all up front and personal.
This morning I chose to write about golf and fairways and lost golf balls because I can see a metaphor being born. Having used up my allotted time and space on this piece, I won't go there today. But you can see it, can't you? How a safe fairway can turn out to be a place where your expectations are not met. Take it from there. You are now the author.
Photo: Rhode Island Country Club, Barrington, RI
