Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Why golf, in all of creation, was the first thing to come to mind when spring arrived, I’m not really sure. You could say it was Pavlovian, I suppose, but then you’d be soiling Pavlov’s good name, because he and his dogs were likely too smart to set foot on a golf course. And even if they did, they would’ve ceremonially killed themselves on the front nine, real proper-like. This is precisely what I failed to do in ’08 and now, with ’09 in full swing–ho ho!–I’m back on the green, none the wiser.

We didn’t part amicably last year, golf and I. My descent into the sport was never willingly initiated, propelled mainly by a desire for a new corporate skill, though at one point I could’ve sworn I felt what passes for enjoyment on the course. Turns out it was just a crick in my neck. The more common sentiment, instead, was rage: at the interminable setup for every shot, at all the lost balls, the exorbitant cost, unbidden advice, and finally, in a perfect capstone to all these infuriating things, a misplaced iron.

But there was one round last year where I punched in a 125–15 shy of my personal goal and still a ways from that magic 100, but directionally it was correct. The goal this year is to meet and exceed that high score. Consistently. Same commitments as before: borrowed or found equipment only, shoes notwithstanding. Absolutely no professional instruction. 110, three rounds. I can almost taste the competency.