Tuesday, June 23, 2009

“God can wait,” declared the Chief late last week, and so ended my two-service streak of church attendance, replaced instead by a Sunday round of that unspeakably wretched sport. And yet, even though I was without congregation and scripture, the experience at hand had an Old Testament gravitas to it–harsh sun beating down upon my back, feet planted in a rich land wrought by the hands of slaves, and a general feeling of forsakenness. Had Moses appeared on the 8th, tablets in one hand and driver in the other, verily would he have proclaimed, “Let my people golf.” And exodus would have had to wait.

I played horribly. Perhaps it was divine retribution for skipping worship, I don’t know. A few weeks ago, I explained how I had felt the closest approximation to enjoying golf, ever, during a particularly revelatory round. My backswing clicked, shots took to the sky, and the game’s mysterious frequencies began to resonate with me. The ideal follow-up would’ve been to capitalize on this breakthrough, clock in those hours, and dig some serious grooves into my muscle memory. Naturally I did the exact opposite and opted for weeks of inactivity.

It’s nobody’s fault but my own, of course. Along those same lines, I realized on Sunday how truly lonely golf can be. Swing poorly, and it’s your fault. Lose a ball, and you’ve got to look for it. You might tee off with others, sure, and socialize accordingly, but in the end you’re completely accountable for your game. Certainly your clubs matter, offering you something to blame, though they only matter to a point, because you can drop thousands on a top-of-the-line set and still suck. There’s no opponent thwarting your finely conceived strategies, after all. It’s simply you and your irons fucking matters up.

Having said all this, I’m going for more tomorrow. It’s strange, you know? Because let’s be honest here. I usually emerge from the 18th slightly tanner, one or two chili dogs heavier, head pounding from too much sun, and very likely disappointed with how I played. There’s little in the way of positive reinforcement here. But there’s also this hope that if I touch the stove enough times, the very laws of nature will be subverted and I won’t get burned. I’ll just get competent.