It’s that time of year again. I get out my golf clubs, stick them in the back of my car, and listen to them rattle back there for about a month or two before I finally summon the courage to bring them out to the golf course.
Where I proceed to embarrass myself time and time again.
I’ve taken lessons from three instructors over the past six years. A total of maybe six lessons, not much, but you’d think I would have improved by now. But no.
I still drive the ball 180-190 yards when I’m on.
I still slice my drives, oh, maybe 30 degrees.
I still regularly hit worm-burners off the fairway.
Chipping? Sometimes, line drives over the green. Sometimes, tiny pop-ups that never make it to the green. Sometimes more turf than ball.
Putting? I really haven’t spent all that much time on it, and it’s probably the best part of my game. Maybe there’s a correlation there.
Actually, I know the reason. With every regular golf swing, I have this barely hidden fear that I’m going to miss the ball. It just seems so unlikely to me that you can pull your club, with its tiny clubface, waaaaay back, then swing it waaaaay forward and still manage to hit a tiny ball sitting on the ground. Seems to defy logic to me.
Now, with the putter, that’s no problem. I know that every time, I’m going to make contact and probably in the “sweet spot”. No fear of missing.
So that’s my golf game. Mediocre at best. No, “mediocre” is my aspiration.
And yet I continue with this frustrating summer ritual, eternally hopeful that I’ll some day discover the eslusive secret to good golf. There’s a lesson here somewhere, I’m sure–something philosophical or religious.
But for now, I’ll just grit my teeth, bite my tongue, swallow my curses (sometimes), and hope against hope that I’ll one day break 100.
Is that asking too much?