I Hate Golf
I never liked playing golf. It's a sport that breeds frustration, even for those who are more-or-less consistently good. Unlike baseball, a sport in which I was able to make on-the-fly mechanical adjustments—and then excel—to me, golf presented a horse of a different color; I was never able to wrap my head around how fickle the sport could be despite its simplicity. How was it that on one day, I could par a hole, but the next—and on the very same hole, no less—I could shoot a double or triple-bogey? It is still unfathomable to me.
My father was very supportive of me playing golf, despite how its in-game bipolarity took a toll on my enjoyment and eventual "retirement." He'd offer little pieces of calm advice, which would often become go-to soliloquies when I'd contemplate tomahawking my seven iron into the ravine.
Here were some of my favorites:
"It's a good sport to know, for business-sake."
"Don't worry about that shot, just move onto the next one."
"Try to develop a rhythm. This game is all about rhythm."
"Just give yourself an eight on that hole."
My father wasn't trying to push me to become a professional golfer or anything, but rather, he felt that I had potential to be a good golfer, and that I might find joy in a sport that I could play into my twilight years. He was right, of course. I stopped playing baseball after high school, and while a bunch of my college buddies attempted to turn tag football and basketball games into a bi-weekly tradition, the idea fizzled out when we realized how white and Jewish we all were. Alas, future old people need sports, too.
And even though, in my non-golf world, I am a very even-keeled person, the lack of "control" I felt while handling a golf club made me prone to angry outbursts on the course. At a certain point, my father stayed mum; no longer bestowing his harmless advice upon my once willing ears. It was unfortunately no longer of use. In my darkest course moment, I told off an elderly lady when she claimed I hadn't yelled "fore" loud enough, and suggested that I work on my "golf etiquette." In retrospect, perhaps I should have. But at the time, I called her an "old bitch." My father had to slip the country club starter a twenty dollar bill to defuse the situation.
Over time, fundamental parts of my golf game deteriorated, and with it, went my pain threshold. While I, at one point, had a pretty steady drive, suddenly, I wasn't able to hit the ball remotely straight with a driver anymore. Dumping my powerful driver for a measly three iron didn't setup my approach shots, which forced me, psychologically, to make up for it in other ways. Imposing this type of approach on oneself is poison, and thus, my game became poisoned.
What's odd about golf is that there really is no exterior pressure: it's just you, your club of choice, and the ball. There's no defenders in your face, or ninety-five mile-per-hour pitches being hurled in your direction, or any noise, for that matter. The only pressure one feels during even the most casual game of golf, is oneself. And that, for me, was too much.
