One Fine Day

It's winter, so I've been keeping an eye on the weather forecast, looking out for a mild day. Last Wednesday was such a day. I hadn't played a full round since late October and I hadn't swung a club since New Year's Day. I was nervous about heading straight out to the course, so in the morning I went to the range and hit a small bucket. I was happy to find that I had no leg pain. It looked like all my strength training and stretching were paying off.

When my tee time came around, I was not surprised to see the course buzzing with activity. I was paired with a beer-drinking solo and a pair of cigar-smoking golf buddies. Luckily, they were all walkers and nice guys. They were avid golfers, too, and the talk focused on bucket list courses played and soon to play. They were impressed I'd played Streamsong and Torrey Pines. They said I absolutely have to make it up to Bethpage.

Most of all, we reveled in the fine weather.
"Isn't this just the most perfect day?" said one of the cigar-smoking duo.
"I know," I said. "I feel like I'm in a dream."

I didn't mention what was really on my mind, that my mom passed away on the day after new year's. And I haven't even begun to process my emotions. In times of stress, golf has been my therapy. It is a chance for me to unwrinkle my brain.

So I focused, with relief, on the game. I played a bright pink ball that day, and the guys marveled at how dependably I seemed to be making all my putts in the 10-to-15 foot range.

"Putting is one of things about golf that seems to get better with age," I told them. "Have you ever played golf with 80-year-olds? They can't drive it as far but they sure can putt."

I told them about an 85-year-old guy I once played with. His name was Eugene. I could tell he was just grateful to be alive and active enough to play golf. He made a birdie on the 18th hole and got so excited he literally jumped up in the air. "I can't wait to get home and call my son to tell him I made a birdie!" he said, as happy as a child.

The men smiled, glad to hear that golf really can be played well into one's golden years.

"I live for golf," said one of the cigar-smokers. He was older, retired, and I could tell something about my Eugene story resonated with him. He was a guy who'd obviously had many accomplishments that, to the world at large, would seem far more important than chasing a tiny ball into a hole. And yet today, that was all that mattered.

We were all quiet for awhile, enjoying the game and the moment while it lasted. Like life, golf is a game that periodically makes you aware of its profound absurdity, as well as the supreme gift it is to play it, all the while knowing it will inevitably come to an end, both joys and sorrows.