Friday, November 15, 2002

The Lonely Game

Last fall my parents moved to South Bend, and this summer my father discovered the Erskine Golf Course, a beautiful public course on the corner of Ireland Road and Miami. I’ve taken up the sport, too, and it has been a good way of spending time with my father—although, let me say from the beginning, golf is nothing like what you would expect, either as a social event or as a sport. It’s an essentially lonely game. The camaraderie it would seem to promote can be reduced sometimes to a few words of sympathy or encouragement between two lousy shots. I’ve never carried out a sustained conversation during a golf outing. The old image I had in my head of businessmen cutting deals on the links simply isn’t realistic. At the tee, players are quiet. Then each goes from there in search of his ball, and except for perhaps a few moments bumping along in the golfcart together and discussing which iron to use, you might not really meet again until you both reach the green—another quiet place of concentration and prayer. The game does lend itself to the kinds of jocular one-liners and knowing observations that pass for social discourse among macho types. My father and I do our best.

My first day on the course was an adventure in humility. I had played golf maybe three times in my life. On that day I played nine holes and shot a 71. On one hole my sliced tee shot drifted far onto the adjacent fairway, and I required four shots to get back around the trees and pointed toward the flag again. I was on my own for a while.

In golf, the lower the score the better, because we add up how many strokes it takes to put the ball in the hole. So… a score of 71 in nine holes. If you don’t know golf, let me put that in perspective for you: if it were, say, a swimming competition, the equivalent would be, well… drowning.

I played once a week this fall, and I’ve improved a little. I owe some of that improvement to my new clubs. They have Arnold Palmer’s signature on them. They’re called “Arnie’s Own,” although at fifty bucks for the entire set, I’m sure Arnie doesn’t own a set. The club-heads are oversized like those new tennis rackets. They look like toys. You’d think you couldn’t miss with them, but you can.

It could be said that golf is a thinking man’s sport, but I believe that it is primarily a feeling person’s game. My father and I talk strategy. We remark on difficulties, sympathize, praise, give each other pointers. But in the end, when you’re golfing, it’s always just you out there, standing above your ball—"addressing it,” as they say—under the sky, beside the trees, in the sand, in the tall or clipped grass, never knowing where you will be next, but here goes.... You keep your head down and follow through, and if you connect just right the ball leaps straight ahead at an incredible speed, takes two hops and rolls onto the green toward the hole. And for a moment it’s as if you aren’t alone anymore. Arnie is with you. But then, if you’re like me, you choke on the easy putt. But your father tells you its okay and compliments you on the approach shot. The charm of golf is its formality. Golf etiquette doesn’t permit players to taunt one another. Apparently the Scottish developed the game around that principle because misfortune is always just over the next rise for any player. And your bad luck adds up, it accumulates. It doesn’t do to dwell on it. There is no forgiveness in the game of golf, and so there has to be pity.

Broadcast by Joe Chaney on November 15, 2002
Sports & Recreation • Permalink • Printer Friendly
Google
WWW Michiana Chronicles

A random selection from more than 300 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:

Joe Chaney -- The Lonely Game / More essays by Joe

Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise

April Lidinsky -- More essays by April

Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan

Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff

Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken

Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette