Thursday, June 26, 2008

Last Sunday, under a pleasant noontime sun, a grim sacrifice was offered, very much against my will, at the Church of Golf. My 5-wood finally succumbed to my poor form and, in a ritual to honor the Old Ones who first encased themselves in garish linen pants and founded the sport, lost its head. It was a hushed affair, quick and tasteful, and the severed appendage dropped to the ground with all the dignity befitting a range speckled with cigarette butts.

I thought I would feel more remorse, since this is the first time I’ve broken sporting equipment, but in truth I hate all my clubs and woods equally. If you’re a golf aficionado, imagine losing a beloved pet. Now, if you’re closer to my location on the golf spectrum, imagine “losing” a foul dog with five legs and an extra asshole down a laundry chute somewhere, and you will begin to approach the sadness that gripped me.

What was really disappointing was the complete regression in skill, to the point where I wondered if divine punishment was being meted out for skipping real church. Whereas at one point 80% of my shots were getting some air, roughly the same percentage was now falling off the tee, or rolling a few dismal feet in front of me, or rocketing flush across the ground. There’s a term for that last one: wormburners, as it was explained to me.

We’re at the part of the narrative where the protagonist has lost mostly everything, confidence included, and must rebuild from scratch. All I’m left with is my stubborn resistance to paying for lessons, but more importantly the knowledge of what a good shot feels like. It’s that focused swing, followed by a quiet crack, then liftoff–and the small, white ball traveling far away in an effortless arc. A few hundred of those and I’ll be set.