Golf and that old summer dream
On a recent day, cloudy with the temperature somewhere in the 40s, my car climbed the hill to the Duck Hollow golf course. A day or so before, I dodged through several crowded aisles at Wal-Mart until I lit upon the store’s assortment of golf balls. I bought a bag of scruffy seconds, formerly water-logged or lost in the shrubs and trees and high grass of unnamed courses.
Cresting the hill at Duck Hollow, I parked opposite number five fairway, took the seven iron from my golf bag which I’ve kept in the trunk all winter (a first, I normally deposit the bag and my golf shoes in the warm, cozy basement), grabbed a half dozen balls, and headed off.
It was windy, but not too windy; it was chilly, but not too chilly. I placed one ball and then another on the clumps which sprouted on the dull winter turf. On my third or fourth try, I launched one high into the air, its short flight momentarily piercing the February gloom.
It plugged on the fairway about 140 yards from number five green and flag.
To my astonishment, I hit the next six shots on the green, none more than 12 feet from the stick. Clustered around the flag like obedient children, these various shots were not equally good ones: several were little more than line drives. Several, however, lifted from my club’s blade, high and deep. Just like mid-season: some shots were good, some bad, some indifferent.
A half hour later, I was in the car, my flirtation with summer over – for the moment. I suspected I would be back.
Every winter I come down with the dispiriting idea that summer is an impossibility. This usually happens in late January. It’s been a little delayed this year.
Normally, the focus of my demoralized state is baseball. This time it’s less about baseball than golf. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about golf.
It began when I stumbled on an admiring reference to a short story, in which the protagonist is a caddie in Minnesota. I read Winter Dreams again. Scott Fitzgerald was quite the writer, the way he summons with few words the sad image of the golf course lying “fallow” under the “white lid of winter.”
A couple of weeks later, on what I thought was a too chilly afternoon, I happened upon an acquaintance in the grocery store. “Joe, don’t ya miss golf?” I asked more for affect than anything.
Joe swirled in mid-stride and pointed to the cuffs of his pants, which were splotchy with mud. “Twelve of us were there today,” he said smiling.
“Now there’s a guy who really loves the game,” I thought to myself.
Then last week, clutching to the delusion that the golf season was just around the corner, I bought new golf shoes. Rubber cleats, of course. What do you think, it’s 1966?
I’ve been playing golf a good long time. I started out like a house afire. One summer morning, when I was 17 or so, I shot even on nine holes at the mountainous Summit golf course. We meant to play 18, which entailed, because the Summit was and is a nine-hole course, playing the same holes twice.
This particular morning was warm and wet. A fog thick enough to make play impossible rolled in. We returned later, toward evening, after the fog lifted. I shot a second nine in par. One day, 18 holes, even par.
(We high school buddies initially played two courses — the Summit and Springdale. We later ventured down to Cedarbrook, past Perryopolis, when it was a mere 18 holes, and Linden Hall, the old Cochran estate near Dawson purchased, ironically enough, by the United Steelworkers. Happily, all four courses are still around.)
After a stellar start, I sank into golf mediocrity. I had a horrible slice. Or was it a hook? In the ’70s, I played mostly tennis. Once, golfing in New Castle, I stepped in some muck. It was sewage residue.
In a sense, I’ve been trying to recover ever since.
Last April, unbeknownst to everyone but my daughter, I traveled to South Carolina for a group lesson with a pro I had met at a golf exposition in Monroeville years before.
It wasn’t good. I was so perplexed by the pro’s suggested changes to my swing, the angle of the club and such that after two days I could hardly hit the ball. He told me to ignore the ball. My interpretation of what he told me was this: if I got the swing right, the ball would get in the way of the club, and smack, off it would fly. Don’t look at the ball! See the ball, hit the ball, I said. He turned away.
On the third and final day I opted out. I couldn’t stand the humiliation, the failure, and what sounded to me like bad advice. Instead, I drove two hours up the coast. I hoped to take in Fort Sumter.
Fast forward. I’ve recently been following the weather on my phone for Bluffton, South Carolina, which is where I took lessons. It’s been balmy. Or so I imagine. High 60s. The highest daytime temperature has been 74.
Golf Dreams is the title of a book I have on the nightstand at home. That’s me. Only I’m awake.
Richard Robbins lives in Uniontown. He can be reached at dick.l.robbins@gmail.com.