Strictly speaking, I’ve yet to reinstate my golf career in any appreciable capacity, and it will remain as such until I play a full round. It’s been a while. A long while. My last trip to the range was 10 months ago, and the last time I stood on the 18th, anywhere, is shrouded in the mists of history, 18 months back or thereabouts. So when I held my 7-iron aloft this weekend, it was like reconnecting with an old friend–one whom I periodically wanted to kill.
It was an article from the New York Times that prompted me to go, frankly, something about how regular exercise could make my neurons better. I don’t know if the scientists who conducted the study considered how rage figured into the equation, so perhaps I can furnish some data. I’m kidding, of course. There were few thoughts of violence. In truth, I honored my pledge to take a calmer approach to golf. After all, so many people play it, wielding their irons so effortlessly. The core premise is simple, too: do as much as you can to ensure your club head returns to the exact same spot. Easy, right?
Of the 70 balls I rented on Sunday, only a third made it off the ground. But in my newfound serenity, I wasn’t angry at all, no. In fact, I was optimistic–so fucking optimistic, since I knew in my heart of hearts I could’ve fared far worse. I persisted. Finished the bucket. And then today, under a clear afternoon sky, I upped my percentage to two-thirds. The consecutive shots gave me the most hope: three in a row, then four, then five, before skyrocketing to single digits unknown. I tried to cherish every shot, regardless of whether the ball took flight or didn’t. The best part? No blisters on any fingers yet. I used to think of them as proof that my hands were crying, but no more! I have overcome. Now, naught but my soul weeps in the great, green void.
I hereby call it “intent-based volunteering,” a noun for the kind of public service I favor above all: the type where you raise your hand for a cause, only to have the cause itself cancelled, days later, for scheduling reasons. Brownie points are yours for the taking, then, with a minimal outlay of effort. Of course, you don’t get nearly as many points as you would have if you actually volunteered, but there’s got to be a few points on the table, right? Or maybe one point? Half?
In short order, though, I agreed to a weekend of kayaking. Now, I’ve only gone one other time in my life, but I remember having fun. There’s a twist to this upcoming event, however, and it’s a doozy. This kayak? It’s gonna be sitting on a lake. During a festival. Which will celebrate Asian culture. I don’t know! I don’t know what I’ve become. The feather in my cap is that I’m a sub, so while I must attend practice, there’s a chance I’ll be able to skip the event proper entirely. There it is again. Intent-based volunteering.
But I must disabuse you of the notion that my sociability is blind and all-encompassing. Do you remember Jim Carrey’s Yes Man? I do, and what was intended to be a comedy now strikes me as an hour-and-a-half of light horror. I’m not trying to say “yes” to everything. As always, there’s a reason for action, in this case self-betterment and some sunlight. But all this is weeks away. This weekend will be spent, with dread and excitement in equal measure, on the Sport Which Must Not Be Named. Until Tuesday, at least.
Sleep is the order for tonight because, as far as I know, a hearty stretch of shuteye is the only remedy for an off day. Today was one of those. Off days are rare, thankfully, but when they strike, they strike hard, handily dispensing feelings of being scatterbrained, imprecise, and downright incompetent at times. To be clear, off days differ from bad days, which occur when external forces are completely arrayed against you. No, off days are nobody’s fault but your own.
Fortunately, fallout from today was contained. I’m pretty sure all my e-mails featured at least one typo, despite the fact that I proofread them, but there weren’t any mission-critical missives, you know? The worst is when you have to do some heavy Excel work on an off day, and an errant decimal point can have dire consequences. But there was none of that today–and I likely would’ve been unable to operate the desktop shortcut to Excel anyway, frankly.
The remedy for all this, again, is simply to rest: to hope for better days and remember better days past. Last Saturday comes to mind. A brilliant spring evening spent on a small hill, talk hushed, Blue Moons in hand, band in the distance, and all around, quiet chatter and dogs running around, under a sky illuminated with starlight and fireworks.