Tuesday, March 2, 2010

For the past few months, my golf clubs have sat neglected in the coat closet, gathering cobwebs and darkness in what was to be their final resting place. I had entombed them there after a particularly confounding summer, where the few instances of improvement were crushed by a preponderance of frustration and poor form. This was in no way helped by my continued refusal to seek professional instruction, of course, and it’s likely matters aren’t going to change much on this front.

I’ve been thinking about the game recently. It started with a couple mental pictures that seemingly came from nowhere: a brief flash here of an early morning drive, a brief flash there of carts lining up for tee-off, a quick panorama of rolling hills covered in dew and chill. It’s the kind of shit you’d find in a Werther’s commercial, you know?

These images eventually piled up, culminating in a morbid curiosity that resolved in two small words. What if? What if I hit all the right notes this year and managed to become proficient? What if I possessed this skill in my business toolkit? What if I were able to resist a chili dog with the conviction of a thousand vegetarians?

I acted on this curiosity over the weekend, exhuming my clubs for a trip to the range. The violent backswing–the very fruit of my efforts from last year–was fully intact and had to be toned down substantially. The need to focus on the ball quickly became apparent. It was a productive hour. But the real test of what I’ve retained comes this Saturday, when I will wander the greens, or what I refer to as the Field of Woe, for four to five hours of my life. It doesn’t stop there, though. Last Friday, fortune also presented a chance to attend the Masters again, and I am compelled to go. I fear there may be no escape.