Why Bother
I golfed today. On a Friday. At my lovely golf course in suburban Minneapolis. But was it fun? A few overdrawn drives on the range, followed by a high pop-up right into the fescue. A 27-foot birdie putt, followed by a 15-foot par putt. A conservative lay up out of the rough, followed by the same shot, just from 10 yards closer to the hole (i.e., a toe shank). This pattern went on through the front nine for a humbling score of 51. Maybe humbling is not quite the right word: I’ve shot that before, on the same nine holes this year.
My playing partner that day was a kind man who is old enough to be my father. He is one of those coincidental golf friends that only comes from having a flexible weekday work schedule, not from many binding shared interests (“please don’t talk about politics, please don’t talk about politics…”). And he was always the kind of golfer who always secretly made me say to myself, “at least I’m not that bad.” On this day, as I was floundering around the front nine, he was lapping me, on pace to match his best round of the year before a rain delay made our twosome into a onesome. It was not fun.
I’ve been a card-carrying member of the 100 Club since I started playing golf in 2013. While I can sit here and recite to myself all the platitudes about the joy of golf, the question that keeps surfacing in my mind is: “why bother?” After golf lessons, practice plans, club membership, golf society membership, and a whole host of other less rational purchases (e.g. I own a remote-control push cart), I don’t know if I’m any better at golf. And unfortunately, this has meant that I haven't enjoyed a lot of the hours I’ve played golf this year. Leaving the course, I can feel emotionally and physically drained, moping around the house with my wife and daughter, and having nothing else to give for the rest of the day. Starting this game just shy of 30 years old, and having a very low ceiling of athletic ability, I know my future is to be a stalwart of the net division leaderboard.
So it begs the question: should I let golf take up such a large part of my life if I’m never going to get better at it? I stopped playing guitar because I couldn’t shred a solo. I stopped home brewing beer because it’s a mess and I can just buy better-tasting beer. If I’m a few pop-ups and toe shanks away from shooting a 104, do I want to keep wasting my time and polluting the world with my lost golf balls?
When I recently played through some scattered showers on an early fall morning, I didn’t pay as much attention to score: not that it helped my sour mood. After finding my drive on 18 on the driving range (finally drew one!), taking three more shots to hack back the fairway, and eventually lying four with 117 yards left to the flag, I hit a wedge that stayed on line, landed, and checked up eight feet from the cup. On my way to the green, I walked a little taller with a smile on my face, ready to save bogey. Walking off with a comfy double (the putt never had a chance), I couldn’t help but look at the empty course behind me and exhale. Having counted down the holes until I could finish a devilish round, I now didn’t want it to end. For all the hell I just put myself through, it’s still a whole hell of a lot easier than what life had in store once I get in the car.
Feeling like a student who didn’t do his homework, I went back to my teaching pro for the next week for my last lesson of the season. I walked in wondering how I was going to stop the bleeding, hoping to reach the end of Fall in Minnesota with a few scores that I could look back on proudly. Winter is long, it’s dark, and it’s coming. And that glorious SOB had me hitting the longest, straighest, and hardest drives I’ve ever hit. While practice was on my mind, I couldn’t help but sneak out for nine holes. I didn’t feel the weight of my bag on my shoulders as I marched forward on each hole. I saw balls go where I aimed them and I matched my best back-nine score of the year without much drama.
Whether high or low scores, sunny days or rainy ones, each time I leave the golf course I wonder when I can get back. “Why bother” might be running through my mind with every lost ball or duffed iron right now, but every time I refill my bag with golf balls, clean out my grooves, or swap out a dirty golf towel, I feel a little charge of excitement, knowing that anything can happen my next time out. While these ups and downs are sure to continue, I realize I can be just a few balls, a new feel, or a deep exhale away from a new best. It’s been that sense of hope and excitement that gets me through the winter, waiting for the snow to thaw, hoping for a golf trip, and ready to start it all over again.
Golf’s not in any danger if I walk away from the game, but I know that my life, even when I can’t get the ball in the hole, would be missing a major weight that helps balance out my draining work as a doctor. Right now, golf is why I get my patient charting done, so I don’t have to do it on the weekend. Golf is why I (sometimes) wake up to work out. Golf is why I hope to shred a full cart bag’s worth of weight so I can walk more freely next year at Bandon. And as long as I can play, I know that golf will help me be better at all the other things I need to do when I’m not golfing.
Writing today, my normal clinic day has been replaced by some virtual meetings from home. While clearly being thoughtful and attentive, I can’t help but look at the tee sheet, dreaming of an opening. If it comes, there’s a chance I could squeeze nine holes in. Wish me luck.