Swing Moods

“Golf is like a love affair. If you don't take it seriously, it's no fun; if you do take it seriously, it breaks your heart.” I didn’t write that. Some guy named Arthur Daley wrote it. It’s a famous golf saying posted on the stalls at the driving range.

Lately, golf has been crushing me.

On Saturday, hubby and I had a noon tee time. I probably should have taken the day off, but I was hopeful. It was sunny and in the 50s. The golf course was packed. I saw a couple of women checking in at the pro shop, and I thought, “Uh oh. Hope we don’t get paired with them.” It’s one thing to get paired with guys; since I play from different tees, it’s hard to compare my game to theirs. But if I play with women, who typically hit from the red tees like me, it can be a pissing contest. And yes, I am fully aware of the irony of that statement.

Over the summer, I had played with several women who landed drives a good 20-30 yards ahead of my ball, and every time it was like a bee sting to the heart. That pain is what motivates me to try to increase my driver distance.  

It turned out that we got paired with two older guys, and the women had the tee time after us. As I got up to tee off, I noticed that the noon sun was casting my shadow directly in front of my stance. Those who have been reading my blog know that I have a bad case of golf-related sciophobia -- fear of hitting over my own shadow. It’s not really a fear, but more like a psychological block. I don’t like the idea of hitting my own shadow because, well, it looks kind of like me.

Anyway, I teed off and drove the ball about 146 yards. Not bad for the first hole, with all the nerves jangling. I hoped things would improve.  

Wish I could say they did.

Hubby behaved himself all right. After I told him not to comment on my bad shots, he stayed pretty quiet. However, one of the guys we were playing with felt compelled to commentate like Nick Faldo, but only when it was my turn. He kept saying annoying things like “Okay, hole it in one stroke” when I was about to putt, or “That’s okay, you’ll do better next time,” after a bad shot, as if I needed someone to make me feel better.

To make matters worse, the other guy paired with us took forever to take a stroke. He hovered over his set-up like a marble statue. I felt like I could die waiting for the guy to hit the ball.

I like to play ready golf and keep things moving. I always walk, with my bag on a pull-cart, and I don’t like standing around waiting. I usually take only one practice swing before a stroke, and even less on a putt.  I like to play as if I am being chased.

Because of this slowpoke, however, we fell behind the pace of play. The women behind us would stand there, arms crossed, waiting for us to move along the fairway. My momentum dragged to a halt, and I just couldn’t get into the game. I hit three drives past my 150 benchmark to 162, 155, and 159 yards. But the rest were either short (in the 140s) or way short (around 100-120). I only made par on 2 holes and shot 110 for the round.

A pitiful performance. The only bright spot was when I hit 6-iron on a 110-yard par 3 and landed at the center of the green. The flag was front, so I had a long putt back, but this meant that I had hit my 6-iron a good 10 yards longer than usual.

Overall, I feel that my irons have improved, or stayed the same. But my woods are a stranger to me now. Like a mother whose babies are all grown up, I just don’t know how to hold them anymore.

That day, golf broke my heart. It has broken my heart many times before, but our relationship has always recovered. Sometimes a little time is all it takes to heal the wound. Maybe it’s time to step away and try to remember all the good things that brought us together in the first place.