Thursday, September 11, 2008

Far away in the desolate tundra of Canada, legend has it that golfers who fail to drive past the women’s tee box must pull down their pants, which only seems shameful because of two assumptions: first, you aren’t already standing in the women’s tee box. And second, you aren’t encased in what apparently passes for haute couture in the Northlands. After a recent outing to the lush greens at Duke, I can confidently say my trousers are firmly attached and slowly, ever so slowly, I’m approaching the shores of mediocrity.

Specifics of the recent outing would bore you, I bet, and really your imagination could furnish an accurate portrait: tee time at a godforsaken hour, bouts of rage, lots of grass, merciless heat–in short, and as expected, I invested $75.00 in the privilege to feel punished. Golf, in a word. What I’m more interested in are generalities and a renewal of commitments. There are only two goals now. Hit far. Swing less. And I don’t plan on revisiting this topic here until I shoot 110 or under.

The frame of mind, scrappy and cheap, will remain the same, with scavenged equipment and a continued refusal to seek professional tutelage. There’s this intoxicating feeling when you’re on the range, where the guy next to you is swinging clubs equipped with compasses, vodka misters, carrier pigeons, the works, and yet you produce the same–or better!–with your bag of shit. His driver has GPS. Yours has dirt and possibly a sticker. The more important feeling, as with most things golf, is what transpires between you and your own game. It’s knowing what a good swing feels like, effortless, quiet, connected. And even if you don’t have a teacher, when you still yourself under the sun, it speaks to you.