Weird? Yes. Here’s why.
Golf can be enjoyable, even compelling … if you are good at it. I was not good despite playing during the summer season for many years. By good, I mean you consistently score under 90 for 18 holes. Some would raise that score to 100. I did not consistently score under 100, let alone break 90.
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I started playing In 1951 when I was ten. That’s when I began caddying at the Thendara Golf Club in the little town of Old Forge, which is located in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. I was in Old Forge because my family had a summer house there. It was nothing fancy; my father was a college professor with seven children to support.
Thendara was a lovely nine-hole public course. An additional back nine was added later with the middle branch of the Moose River flowing by several holes. It was lovely.
My experience as a caddie taught me a lot about golf and golfers. I was a cheerful and dutiful caddy, but (truth be told) not a good one. I never knew the right answer when a golfer asked me what club he (or occasionally she) should use. “Five iron or six from here?” I had no idea, but I usually gave a confident response. Golfers want a knowledgeable caddy, so I gave them the illusion that I was one.
I also wasn’t attentive when it came to following a ball’s flight. I’d try, but by the time my golfer finally hit his shot (after practice swings and wiggling to get his weight balanced), I was usually daydreaming. A drive would veer off to the right or left, soar over the fairway, go into the rough, or fly into the woods. I, the keen-eyed caddy, was supposed to “mark” a tree near to where the ball was last seen, thus facilitating our hunt for the ball. But (truth again be told) often I had only a vague notion of where the ball went. So, I dutifully continued my role as an illusionist by giving the impression that I knew EXACTLY where to find the ball.
I never studied the game of golf. I was self-taught, which meant that I wasn’t taught. In contrast, my brother Justin, fourteen years younger than me, instinctively studied golfing and golfers as soon as he commenced caddying. And he became a superb golfer.
Developing a good golf swing requires study, patience, and practice. It was about having a slow backswing, keeping your arm close to the body, pivoting your waist as you hit the ball, and keeping your head down after you’ve hit the ball.
Much of what I just wrote feels strange to me, even unnatural. Oh, yes, … and you need to do all of those things without becoming tense. ‘Keep calm’ is what you needed to be. Among other flaws, I never got the pivot right and was hopeless at trying to calm my mind.
Thendara at Old Forge (photo, Facebook)
Through high school and college, I continued playing during family summers in Old Forge and, later, in my annual one/two-week visits. Occasionally, I broke 100 with the aid of a Mulligan (a second drive), some long gimmes (give-it-to-me) putts, and improving the lie (re-positioning the ball on fairway grass).
I played with two brothers and a brother-in-law, all of whom consistently broke 90. I’d be three or five strokes behind them after a few holes and then fantasize how I’d catch up. (Me speaking to me: “I’ll make a birdie on each of the next two holes, then par the following three.“) Yes, it was a fantasy because I never came close to accomplishing what I had imagined.
Justin tried to teach me how to drive. “Slow down your backswing and then swing consciously.” I made an effort. But even if I managed a slow backswing, the golf ball became the head of a snake that I had to kill at the top of my swing. I’d swing my club down ferociously and hit a bad shot. No matter what I tried or told myself, that snake always appeared at the top of my backswing.
Eventually, Justin gave up. “OK,” he declared, “Swing harder and faster.” The bottom line? I did not have the temperament for golf.
In my forties, I played one great round with my brother Gregory, who was as bad as I was, and (importantly) he was even less interested. One August day, the two of us decided to play the Thendara front nine. As we walked up to the first tee, Greg announced, “This is an easy game. Nothing to it!” Somehow that relaxed us, and we both hit excellent drives. “It is an easy game,” I said, and then hit a superb iron to the first green. “Very easy,” he agreed.
Before every drive and before almost every shot, one or both of us said, “Easy game.” Hole after hole it was. I shot a 41, five over par, which was by far my best round ever. Greg was close behind. But I never approached duplicating that round again, no matter how often I repeated the presumed magic phrase, “Easy game.”
Worse yet, I began to realize that golf loved to lure me on. Occasionally, I’d play well for a couple of holes, but then “good” would abruptly vanish and turn into ‘bad.” I’d then resume being a “duffer” by slicing or hooking my drive into the woods, topping my iron shots, sending the ball dribbling down the fairway, muffing my chip shots, and (finally) needing a long gimme to manage a three-putt.
Frustrated, I figured I should quit. But, then, on the final hole or two, golf would sometimes tempt me. Inexplicably, I’d hit a long straight drive and an iron onto or near the green and get down in two putts.
Seductive golf urged hypnotically, “You could get good at this. Don’t give up.” Hey, I love playing basketball. Why couldn’t I love golf?
Courtesy, Great Big Canvas
I never managed to love golf, but Thendara was beautiful, and I enjoyed playing with family members. Golf still had me hooked, and I began learning how to lessen its frustrations.
I’d play with my father and brother Steve during my college years. Our dinner table conversations were often littered with golf talk. “You know that 6th hole, with the dog-leg to the left?” But one evening, bored Mom declared, “Golf chatter! Golf chatter! I’m either going to get a divorce or take up golf.”
She took up golf.
Indeed, my mother gave me my first lesson. A good athlete, she learned rapidly. Several summers later, she told me that she’d done very well on her final three holes and realized that she could improve. I replied, “Mom, if you get serious about your score, you are never going to enjoy a round of golf again.”
A few days later, she said I was absolutely right. Why should she care about her score? Mark Twain famously defined golf as “A good walk spoiled.” So, because Mom loved walking, she would not allow golf to spoil her walk on the course. She ceased taking practice swings and just walked up to the ball and hit it. Wherever her shot went, she cheerfully walked on.
I wasn’t capable (yet) of being indifferent to my score, but Mom’s free attitude hovered in my mind. Why did my score matter? Some years later, I had a spiritual breakthrough about my score. In my mind, I “should” score no more than 45 for nine holes. I was invariably disappointed when I shot my typical 51, 54, or even 49. When asked how my golf had been, I’d reply, “Lousy.” Then, following Mom’s inspiration, I decided to be a 55 golfer. When asked how my golf had been after another round of 53 or 51, I’d reply, “Pretty good! Better than I expected.”
My sister Joanne later released me from any concern with my score. She told me she only counted good shots, not her total score. As she said, “Every bad shot is just another opportunity for a good shot.” I switched to counting only good shots.
By this time, I was playing less. For years I’d occasionally played in Berkeley, where I lived, and lugged my clubs with me cross-country on my annual trips to Old Forge. Then one summer, fed up with schlepping my golf bag with the rest of my airplane luggage, I abruptly decided to leave my clubs in the Adirondacks. That meant I couldn’t play when home.
Courtesy Dreamstime.com
I rationalized the outcome. No longer would that hypnotist golf con me into playing in California. Playing eighteen holes in Berkeley’s Tilden Park consumed over six hours, door-to-door, which was a waste of time, I surmised. Instead, I began to ponder what golf really was. Invented in Scotland, it was the ultimate Puritan Game. You only played against yourself. The punishment was two strokes if you hit the ball out of bounds. Each mistake (each sin?) punished you. Every duff cost you a stroke.
Those demon voices did not lead to good shots. Furthermore, you had a long wait between swings—walking to the ball and waiting for your partners to hit their balls–and that left plenty of time for your demons to attack you. And bizarrely, roughly two-thirds of your score was from play close to, or on, the green, using only a few clubs—a nine iron or a wedge and always a putter.
And I had to endure golf chatter, which is loaded with clichés. As the classic golf cliché puts it: “Drive for show and putt for dough.” My brother Steve observed that one pleasure of playing is four hours of uninterrupted clichés. Really? “Golf shot!” “Never up, never in.” “At least you’re pin high.” “That dog won’t hunt.” “That’s trouble!”
So here is where I settled. I crave interesting conversation. I admire nothing Puritan. Why should I play their game? So I quit.
Those hours I squandered playing golf in Old Forge I now spend reading on our boathouse porch, paddling our canoe, swimming, talking with family members, or (doing what I did as a caddie), namely, daydreaming. Occasionally, I miss the beauty of the Thendara Club. I could take walks there, but I don’t. And I’ve never missed golf.
