Journey through fairways and hazards

This is a long, rambling, mediocre post which is, believe it or not, based on the Sunday Scribblings prompt “dream journey.”

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I’m having the nightmares about golf again.

This one was a little different. Instead of trying to tee-up on top of an ironing board, I was actually teeing-up on grass this time. But the first sign that things weren’t going to work out well was when I stepped up to the ball with my driver and the ball suddenly turned into a bright red apple.

Actually, the first sign would have been that the golf dream morphed from a dream in which Ben Affleck, who had apparently been up to no good, was hiding out in a secret attic. Then he became the Golf Team Booster Club’s head mother. (I watched Hollywoodland last night, so that accounts for the presence of Ben Affleck. Thank goodness, ‘cause I really needed a reason. If he was randomly popping up in my dreams I would be worried. Very worried.)

Come to think of it, the apple wasn’t even the second or third bad sign, because before that, but after the Affleck, came the fact that the first hole was actually set up in a parking deck. The tee was a patch of nice green grass just before the “Low Clearance” sign. The green was a short straight shot away along the back wall of the deck (a par 3 at most).

Then there was the fact that hubby teed off before me and landed in the water. “What water?” you ask? The water surrounding the parking deck of course. Exactly.

I guess none of those things (not even Ben’s presence) are necessarily nightmare material, maybe not even the ball-into-apple part. But when I teed off without taking a practice swing… nothing good could ever come from that. Nothing. Sure enough, I struck the apple badly. It wobbled five feet to the right and landed directly behind a bright orange bucket. I didn’t even make it past the “Low Clearance” sign.

The nightmare came alive as I was preparing for my second shot. I couldn’t remember the rules. Is it okay to pick up the apple to check for bruises as long as I put it back in the same exact spot? Is it okay to move the obstacle in front of the apple as long as I don’t move the apple? Do I take a penalty stroke for that? Oh God.

That’s when I woke up in a cold sweat.

I wish I were joking, but I’m not. The good thing is that I was saved from having to play even one more shot.

I used to play golf when I was a kid. Not too many folks know that. It’s not a secret, but it’s also not a topic that comes up at college parties. (I was a big nerd and only went to one party in college, so I’m just assuming, really.) But yes, I used to play. Past tense. The reason I haven’t played golf in more than fifteen years happens to be the same reason I still have nightmares about it: it is the most frustrating game ever. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Once upon a time though, it was something that I almost enjoyed, something I wanted to learn, something I wanted to be good at. I suppose that was because my dad played and I wanted to tag along. He played on Saturday and Sunday mornings, and maybe once a week after work. He drove his old bright yellow 1971 Datsun 240Z with the broken choke lever and the old-school seatbelts. It was about the only time he drove it, so the possibility of riding in the cool car was a major factor attracting me to golf. Aside from that, he had taught my brother to play, so of course I had to try everything he did. It was only fair.

So I took my brother’s hand-me-down clubs in the old brown golf bag and went to the driving range with Daddy. I liked spending time with him. I liked doing something sporty to balance out the ballet and piano lessons. I suppose it didn’t hurt that he used to compliment me on my skills. “She’s got a natural swing.” What more could a girl – a tomboy – want to hear from her father? It also didn’t hurt that he always commented on how well I listened. “She can really take direction. She’ll listen. Her brother – you can’t tell him anything. He refuses to listen.”

I can still hear Daddy and his directions. “Address the ball. Ball slightly closer to your front foot. Bend slightly at the knees. Pinkies together as you grip the club. Thumbs in a straight line. Draw back slowly, keeping the front arm straight. Keep your head down, eyes on the ball. Swing the club down and forward, hitting under the ball. Follow through, turning the hips. Back heel comes up off the ground, toe to the ground, head up to watch the ball sail.”

Except it rarely sailed. I only managed to get the ball airborne one out of five shots. That’s when Daddy would resort to his other advice. “Well, just try hitting it without thinking about it.”

That worked sometimes, too. But not nearly often enough to convince me that there was any hope that I might fulfill my dad’s dream of getting me into the LPGA (so he could retire early, he joked). The truth was that I was no Michelle Wie. No Bobby Jones. No Tiger Woods. Not even a Roy “Tin Cup” McAvoy.

But Roy was right about one thing. When you hit the ball just right, “a tuning fork goes off in your heart and your balls.” (Again, I’m assuming here, as I don’t actually have balls.) For every four frustratingly terrible shots, there was one nice one. So I kept at it. After the occasional weekday afternoon at the driving range, I eventually graduated to playing on the actual course, but only on the least busy days, so we wouldn’t slow down the real golfers while I took eight shots to make it to the green. Daddy continued to be a patient teacher. He told me to take my time and encouraged me to take practice swings for every shot. I learned the terms and the etiquette (slice, hook, the second hole was a dog-leg to the right; never step on the cup, allow faster players to play through). The day I managed to par the fifth hole, the dreaded lake hole, Daddy bought me my first golf glove.

I took one or two lessons for a few summers, easily convinced to join the gaggle of girls trying to keep our eyes on the ball rather than on Cody Hannover*, the young, extremely handsome instructor. I played in three tournaments; finished in second place once or twice and even won once in the third or fourth grade. I think I shot a 38. Sounds impressive until you learn that the tournament consisted of only five holes. (I only won that one because Tracy Mooney, who was a real natural, got stuck in the sand trap on the second hole and couldn’t manage to get out until four shots later.) I was given little trophies of golfers frozen for eternity in their follow-throughs. The golf club always fell off of one of them, and for years I would pass my dresser, find the miniature club lying loose at the marble foot of the trophy, and put it back in the capable hands of the little golden plastic golfer.

After three years I’d had enough of the frustration. I was getting older but not any better. I took up tennis instead. Tennis I liked. Tennis was faster and, though the ball was a moving target, it was bigger and easier to hit. And you could be loud and grunt and it was occasionally acceptable to scream and yell and throw your racquet when you got frustrated. Golf, being a gentleman’s game, didn’t allow that, and that’s what bothered me most of all. A game that difficult, that annoying, that frustrating, ought to make allowances for its players. It ought to give you some sort of outlet so you don’t feel like throwing yourself into the lake by the time you reach the fifth hole.

It doesn’t though, and that’s why I stopped playing golf and haven’t ever felt the need to start back up again. After I stopped playing I’d still sometimes sit and watch the big tournaments with Daddy on TV. I’d still listen to him when he came home from playing, standing there in his green Masters visor with the sweat stain, recounting his birdies and bogeys and perfectly-breaking putts. If it sometimes got a little boring, at least I felt like I was giving him an outlet. I didn’t mind sharing it with him, as long as I didn’t have to experience the frustration for myself.

It’s years later now. New interests, obsessions, and a bad back mean that Daddy doesn’t play anymore. Neither do I, and yet here I am, still haunted by the frustration, albeit in the form of ridiculous nightmares.

For me, golf was a journey from mediocrity to mediocrity. It was slow and peppered with sand traps and water hazards and the occasional glimpse of fairways and greens. As frustrating as it is though, there is some good to golf: you start and end in a nice green spot, and you can take as many practice swings as you want along the way. That’s more than can be said for plenty of other things in life.

*Names changed to protect those who are now on the pro tour and those who were lucky enough to inherit their mother’s PE-coach genes.