Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Golf. A noun which here defined is an insidious form of torture invented, unsurprisingly enough, back when people were hanged, drawn and quartered, burnt at the stake, or otherwise forced to travel from hole to hole without the aid of a small, covered cart. Perhaps donkeys were used instead, I don’t know. What I do know is the inventor of the sport, near the end of his life, very likely disappeared during an afternoon game, cackling evilly as hellfire enwreathed him, his body swallowed whole by a bunker on the 9th, his dark work completed.

But it’s also a corporate necessity, a required entry in the modern business lexicon, and to this end I’ve resigned myself to learning it. The goal, as always, isn’t mastery in any sense of the word, but proficiency. Picture this: a beautiful spring morning. Top-notch course. A partnership worth just north of a hojillion dollars. First hole. You’re still hopeful, your lack of experience diluted by a sense of possibility and optimism. You line it up. A few practice strokes. Showtime. Your backswing is perfect, the club flashing in a glorious arc. And then the club head bypasses the grass completely and plunges into the dirt, lightly grazing the tee and causing the ball to roll a few inches forward ever so gently.

This is precisely what cannot happen. The first goal is to procure a set of clubs, followed by some instruction. A recent trip to Golf Galaxy revealed that “irons” aren’t, in fact, made of iron at all. I was ashamed until I realized that such a game could only beget this kind of deception. A used set seems to be the way to go, and although a few hundred bucks is a pittance in the golfing world, I also realize I’m buying a couple pounds of metal that, at least in my hands, might as well have been shaped into a shovel or a really cool-looking rake.