The secret to enjoying the game of golf
<center><b>Bill Stevenson</b></center>
My dad played golf. I used to caddy, dragging his bag of clubs up and down hills all day, watching him hit the little white ball.
Why he considered it fun, was beyond me. I didn’t get it.
Then I started to play golf about a year ago. It was kind of fun. Hitting the ball was appealing. Watching it fly long distances was rewarding. But getting it into the hole in the predetermined number of swings was a problem.
There is an art to playing golf well. It goes beyond the physics of transferring energy from a club in motion to a golf ball. It goes beyond the aerodyamics of how dimpled the ball is or what the core is made of. It is beyond the basic body mechanics of how to swing, hold the club or align your feet.
There is something in how you move your body. The nuances are troubling when you try to think about it while playing. It seems there is a right way to play that is different for everybody.
When I started, I listened to everyone’s advice about how to swing the clubs, line up with the fairway and how to read the greens. Then I started reading the golf magazines and skimming books in an attempt to understand the game and why so many people seem addicted to sinking the ball in a cup hundreds of yards away.
My problem was I still didn’t get it. I had no inspiration to create the passion to enjoy and improve my game play.
One beautiful sunny summer day in Westbank, B.C., Canada, I found it. The reason for golf became apparent.
I was standing on the green of the eighth hole at Shannon Lake Golf Course with my wife and her grandmother. Following a long roll across the green grass, my Sponge Bob SquarePants golf ball went over the edge and created the sound of a golf ball bouncing on the plastic at the bottom of the cup.
A moment later I disrupted several players as I balled my hands into fists, thrusting them skyward, while letting go a triumphant yell of success. I made par. For the first time ever, I hit the ball from the tee to the hole in the prescribed number of strokes.
This is when my joy of golf began. This is when I became addicted.
After the echoes of my scream faded from the hills of the course and the other golfers began to ignore me, I stood there feeling as if I had achieved the impossible. I hit that tiny ball hundred of yards, avoiding trees, sand traps and scrambling golf carts, while keeping it on the narrow band of grass called the fairway. My third shot put the tiny ball on the small patch of well manicured grass, rolling close to the tiny hole with a plastic cup. My fourth shot left the ball rolling into the cup.
This feeling of achieving the impossible was incredible. It is a high. I love it. Now, I work to achieve the same feeling when I play. I keep hunting the next rush of making par or the even more intense sensation of satisfaction in finishing a hole in fewer shots than required. Yes, I love the birdie and look forward to the elusive eagle.
I should apologize in advance to any potential golfers who might be in ear shot when I achieve an eagle, sinking the ball in two less shots than required. I will make a spectacle of myself. And, not in a dignified quiet way.
I am not Tiger Woods or Arnold Palmer. Heck, I barely keep up with my coworkers. But I have days where I can hit the ball straight and put it where it needs to be. I am still a pretty new amatuer.
To keep from being utterly frustrated, I still cheer when I bounce a shot off a tree, rock or the occasional follow player’s golf ball. I strive to enjoy myself and try to keep from being too serious by using Sponge Bob SquarePants golf balls or ones that look like “alien eggs.”
Friday I had the joy of playing golf for the Columbia Basin Herald team during the Moses Lake Chamber of Commerce golf tournament. We won with the low men’s net score. While I contributed a couple of long drives, the occasional fairway shot and a rare putt, my biggest contribution was having a high handicap.
Despite my enjoyment of golf, and rare successes on the golf course, I still donate golf balls to the Out of Bounds gods on a regular basis. It’s a small price to pay for when I get it right.
Bill Stevenson is the Columbia Basin Herald managing editor. We hear that sometimes he writes the name of circulation director Tom Hinde on golf balls, just in case he loses them out of bounds.
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