Tuesday, April 7, 2009

There are two conflicting forces within me as I glance at the lush pictures of what I’m about to forgo. On one hand, there’s the allure of playing on a private course for the first time, likely a well-kept one, and the hypnotic pull of exclusivity isn’t lost on me. This wouldn’t be some crappy public plot of land on which I could lose a 3-iron and have it find its way into the golf bag of someone named Cletus, who in between asking for possum from the cart chick wonders why he has more woods than teeth. No, this would be top-shelf. Everybody will be wearing monocles, I imagine, and if I were to lose another club, servants would quickly bury the offending piece of metal, lest it repulse another player.

Plus, I mean, TPC Sugarloaf. It sounds delicious, like a secret place situated in the Lollipop Kingdom, somewhere near the Muffin Man on Drury Lane. Golf is made palatable, almost. I’m going to refrain, however, and here’s why. I believe sports relate to business much in the same way talking intersects with class discussions. You remember that one guy in English class who may or may not have been smart, and duly confirmed the latter as soon as he opened his mouth? If he had kept silent and played his cards close to the vest, no one would’ve been the wiser. Similarly, until you confirm your game with physical evidence, there’s a chance you’re just being modest.

I know, empirically so, that I’m horrible at golf. No good can come of playing publicly, especially with business partners. At best, it will leave a small blemish on my permanent record, potentially leading to a “Good guy, but he’s the pits at golf.” At worst, it can serve as a final kick in the teeth, maybe in the form of “This contract blows, plus he sucks at golf.” A pass for me, then. I’m sure I’ll have the opportunity to swing incorrectly and have the ball roll a few feet on another private course, in another time.

Fortunately the main purpose of this trip isn’t Sugarloaf. It’s the Masters. If you had asked me a few years ago to picture myself at this event, I would’ve suggested the explosion of a beer bong inside a nunnery as a more likely phenomenon. But flash forward to tonight. I’m excited. This is it, the place where the legends congregate and all the ley lines of golf converge. I’ve worked out the majority of the details of the trip faithfully, but as for the Masters itself, I’m going to play it by ear. Mostly. I do have the outlines of a plan in mind: eat an egg salad sandwich. Try the pimento. Wear pants, even.