The sun has barely risen from his slumbering place as I sneak onto the verdant field still awash and bespeckled by the quiet dew. With club in hand, I creep ever so carefully behind my unsuspecting quarry. Lately, I have been unlucky and have missed every shot. But today my aim is true and I make contact with the slippery devil.
When I struck it, it made a satisfying but slightly foolish noise like the flatulence of a diminutive yet powerful wood fairy. Joy puddles up so tightly in my goozle that I am forced to thrust my nose in the air in order to breathe. My chest swells with pride. Every foul thought has dissipated from my mind, every crooked path has been made straight. All is right with the world again. For I have prevailed–it landed in the fairway.
Most of the time my strokes whiz by the tee like a veteran drunk passes a car in a curve, occasionally side-swiping but not really making head on contact. Either that or I end up digging around the dimpled orb in a fashion more akin to gardening than golfing. But every now and then, apparently during weeks when the Sun has literally been turned into darkness, I manage to connect and land one fit for the books.
I imagine this is how ole Hank the Hominid felt a few million years ago when he first hit something with a stick. By simply wrapping his fingers around a root or branch he could transform them into instruments of conquest. His puny primeval arm muscles were amplified by the principles of mechanics so that his little monkey swat was transformed into a manly engine of destruction. He was now more predator than prey, more man than beast. He could now defend against a raging sabretooth, or fell a dragon, or bring chaos to heel by beating it into submission.
Hitting things with sticks is the hallmark of human progress. Consider things which may be improved by hitting them with a stick: chicken breasts, the TV, politicians. So having a dozen good sticks in hand, all of them expertly crafted and perfectly balanced, is one reason I’ve taken up golf in my forties.
Of course, the other reason I decided to take up golf in my forties is because it is one of the few things you can take up in early middle-age without catching hell for it. While sordid affairs, mid-life crises, and Ponzi schemes are not unusual at this stage of life, they tend to be frowned upon.
Leaving aside the social constraints at play, it’s not as though golf is all that physically demanding compared to other sports. Most of one’s time is spent riding around on neat little carts drinking beer and smoking cigars, or trampling through the odd bit of bramble swearing oaths and looking for your ball. Sure, you’ll have to swing your arms a little, but remember, the object is literally to do that as few times as possible.
And let’s not forget that golf is one of the few sports that allows a middle-aged man to look good while playing it. Think about it. Few things are worse than watching flabby old farts in shorts and sleeveless shirts flailing all over a basketball court. Though, admittedly, the octogenarian jogger with a penchant for spandex is hard to beat. Whereas, golf has gravitas. You can play it with your pants on. In fact, it is preferable. Neatly pressed pants, genuine leather designer belts, well-coiffed hair, Polo shirts, Ray Bans. Shoot, they should probably call it the runway instead of the fairway.
I suppose there are even political reasons to love golf. These days we are told that golf is “right coded.” But such claimants, everything is “right coded” that isn’t overtly promoting whatever kind of kinky business goes on in bathhouses and the Senate hearing room. While it isn’t evident to me that golf is any more right coded than Parcheesi, golf is inherently conservative.
Consider that the object of the game is to have the lowest score possible. It doesn’t get anymore conservative than that–both in terms of points and poll numbers. Your average country club is going to weed through the have-nots, spend a ridiculous amount of cash on lawn chemicals while barely paying the maintenance men enough to buy beans, whilst serving $50 cocktails to golfers and their fellow Republicans. It’s like a page drawn straight out of Burke.
Men of a certain age are also drawn to golf for aesthetic reasons. Many folks seem to think that mature men have no appreciation for beauty at all (except in the case where immature women are involved), but this is an unfair criticism. There is much to admire about the aesthetics of golf. Namely, the very environs in which it is played. Golf courses are almost always beautiful. They manifest the platonic form of the middle-aged, white male aesthetic–no ornamental shrubbery, no fussy little flowers, no kids asking for a new Porsche or Nintendo Switch, just acre upon lush acre of greenness that they don’t have to mow.
So when I got home from an early nine this morning, exultant over a few good strokes, I turned on the TV to see how the fellas in Augusta were doing. Hundreds of people with $1.50 pimento cheese sandwiches in hand huddled around eighteen holes. Eighty-nine of the best dressed sportsmen in the world squaring off with sticks in their hands. And tomorrow when it’s all said and done, one of those gentlemen will have clubbed their way to a purse of $18,000,000.
Hitting things with sticks is the hallmark of human progress. So it’s little wonder we call it The Masters.
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You might be a distant cousin...my father, now at rest, loved golf every Saturday for the best part of his life. When I get to missing him and his gentle ways, or when I can't fall asleep at night, a tall glass of water and a bit of golf on the tv soothes my soul.