The other morning I eagerly added 4 extra golf balls to my hatchback stash as I got ready to leave for work. After a painfully disappointing first lesson, I expected the second session to be just as discouraging and equally stinging to my right hand. But I was pleasantly surprised to connect with the ball enough to get a transient feel for a potentially better swing. And this time I was smart enough to tape up my thumb and pointer finger to save my right hand from the torture of hitting 200+ balls in an hour. Ready to try out the new swing, I was saddened to hear that a member of my foursome was denied the right to enjoy a much needed 4.5 hours out on the course with his golfing buds. 30 minutes complaining about how his wife doesn't allow him any freedom led us to cancel our tee time in lieu of venting over a couple pitchers.
Friends often ask me why I play golf. Interestingly, no one has ever asked me why I play tennis. But I digress. Originally I took up golf for a guy, which is generally a slippery slope on which to step, especially since things like golf and football serve as outlets for guys to get away from the women in their lives. But oops, I stepped and slid. I never could pin down why I continued to play, though. It is frustrating, not to mention expensive, and just plain difficult to get the hang of. But I am beginning to see past the first tee all the way to the 19th hole, where walking those 4 miles and then bonding over Fat Tire has laid a foundation of friendship that goes beyond a common tee time on Saturday afternoon. Heartfelt discussions concerning separation, divorce, teenagers doing drugs, mingled amidst politics in the world and in the office and childhood experiences that have meandered their way into our so called adulthood - those are worth the 3 putts to give me a bogey on the par 3 17th, the duff into the water after a long drive into the middle of the fairway, and the occasional greens in regulation moment of glory.
Now you know why I play golf. And now I know too.
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