Lifelong appeal of golf

A few reminders — lessons, really — of what I find so interesting about golf. These come courtesy of the 2024 Masters, which I got to watch for hours on end during a long weekend of recovery from what they call a medical “procedure.”

The more professional golf I watch, the less I’m interested in who won or how much money they “earned.” And there’s something very off-putting about the increasing emphasis upon betting odds and prop bets that have become such a steady supply of sports coverage on cable TV, radio and websites. My own interest is far more focused on the quality of shot making, the trajectory of the golf ball, and the intriguing bounces and roll out created by the unique lay of the land that makes these playing fields the most diverse in all of sports.

That’s what drew me to the game from the very moment I first stepped onto a golf course at age 12. I had never seen turf that closely cropped, so smooth and tight. And I watched with wonder as I saw a golf ball launched from a distant tee and followed it agape as it butterflied down next to me. By the time it landed, I was in love with a feeling that I have never lost. It’s a feeling that I have been able to conjure up ever since, whether through my imagination while writing about golf or in my aspiration to play it better.

I’ve never been a good enough player to feel competitive, or even to enjoy the drama of “C-flight” matches. I played second on my high school varsity team, but this was in New York City when anyone who could break 50 for nine holes was good enough to make the team. A brief foray as a member of a country club saw me enter the occasional event but, frankly, I never enjoyed the ritual and soon withdrew from competitions.

My few memorable, if fleeting, experiences with success are what have kept me going and keep me hoping that even at my age I can get better — or at least stave off inevitable decline. At my best I was down to an 11 or 12 index, which is the handicap I carried when I played my career round at Sand Hills Golf Club in central Nebraska 15 years ago, a 74 that saw me hit 12 greens in regulation, not miss a fairway or get into a bunker, and make every putt inside six feet. Club founder Dick Youngscap played with me that round and attested my scorecard — the only one I have kept framed in my study. OK, the day was unusually windless, but I still have that scorecard to look at as a reminder of what was once possible.

I keep at it. Two or three times a week in my driveway — or over the winter, in a nearby pro shop — I have hauled out my weighted, color-coded swing sticks in an effort to increase my swing speed. It appears to be working, having picked up eight miles an hour in the last few months. I enter the new golf season with renewed hopes of maintaining my distance, if not improving on my drives. I used to carry the ball a lot farther, but now I have become steadier, more consistent, and narrowed the range of my wayward shots. Whether I can get my index down below 16 is another matter. But I’m still enamored with the feel of the ball compressing against the clubface and generating a flight path that looks like one of those I saw this past weekend on TV.

Which is what makes golf really appealing. Not the prize money. Not the win totals or the career achievements. But the small, simple task of getting my body in sync adequately to launch a projectile to an intended target via a graceful ballistic arc.

That sense of empowerment is a lifelong sensibility. It is at the core of my golf world, and it will never lose its appeal.