Originally published in my column at worldgolf.com – some poetry for hackers.
The air is crisp. The wind is still. The golf clubs are shiny.
I break the silence with a clean thwack and watch as my ball flies with purpose across a bright blue sky that seems to serve only as a canvas for my stroke.
The ball bounces and rolls through the dew, smudging the immaculate fairway before it settles in the middle. I trace its line with my steps as if following a shooting star. My feet press my signature into the grass.
I choose my next brush and again interrupt the quiet air to apply another stroke. For a moment the line is lost as the thin application takes an imaginative path.
From an unplanned perspective I mask out the grainy shoreline that guards my focal point about 40 yards away. I hear encouragement in the waking song of a bird. This is my specialty. This is my bread and butter. I scrape a chunk of butter and hear the songbird laugh.
Five feet closer than I was, the hue increases in intensity. My focus gets so sharp that it blurs, and I nearly take the skull right off the ball with my passionate flair. The line I produce has such speed that it threatens to leave the floating canvas, but it comes to rest near a dried red border.
My golf ball looks comfortable, resting its sore head in a soft depression as it tries to hide among the long reeds and clumps of soil. A roadrunner stares into my soul from the edge of the tulles. From this angle, I am offered another pristine beach that demands to be left unsullied.
Shunning artistic convention, I defiantly pollute the beach with my next stroke. I look back toward the tulles and see the arrogant roadrunner walking slowly away.
These sands are so beautiful they really shouldn’t be so close to the green. As I step into my new medium, I notice its morning texture and decide on my stroke technique. Two strokes later, I smooth the sand’s surface, trying to re-create the groundskeeper’s magnum opus, and ascend to the silky green palette, now splattered with my own gritty handiwork.
I admire the curves and slopes from all angles before going back to the deckled edge where my ball is perched. I imagine a 25-foot arch painted from my ball to the hole; I intend to glaze it with my next stroke. As I carefully apply it I am immediately aware that a lighter touch would have made a more appealing picture. I watch as its path exposes previously unseen slopes.
Appreciating the nuances I missed, I study the area again to prepare for a smooth, 10-foot brush stroke. My amateur eye is revealed as I again fail to connect the dots and my line ends inches from the hole.
I swiftly complete the connection.
As I walk toward the next frame in this outdoor museum, I tally my marks on the last and announce quietly to the ether my double-digit result:
10.
I must be imagining the mockingbird repeating it back to me again and again: 10, 10, 10.
To avoid a messy composition I try to suppress all the swing thoughts bubbling up as a result of that 10. Forget the golden sections. Forget the rule of thirds. Forget atmospheric perspective. Keep the focal point.
Another day of happily embracing the gestalt theory is underway.
Tiger’s Dominance Is All About His Mental Game
Yes, it’s another post about Tiger Woods. I’m just so in awe.
I have always enjoyed rooting for underdogs when I don’t have a favorite player or team to support in any given contest. However, I also appreciate excellence. I love seeing Tiger dominate so thoroughly just as I want to see The Patriots win the Super Bowl and have the perfect season. I’d be happy to watch Tiger win every tournament he plays this year (and he sure looks like he could pull that off).
It just seems impossible for anyone to be so consistently good at a game with so many intricacies that he outplays his peers every time. It’s to the point that he doesn’t really have peers. He’s in a flight all his own. For anyone who has ever played this crazy game, Tiger’s performance is beyond impressive to the point that it’s almost unbelievable.
I contend that the difference between him and every other golfer in the world is purely mental. Any one of those guys on Tour can train with coaches, work hard and perfect their swings so they can execute most of the time. The difference is maintaining the mental state to execute it more frequently. And keep maintaining it on the putting green. Hole after hole, round after round, tournament after tournament. Only Tiger has shown he can do that.
Is it in our genes?
I have the ability to focus at times, but I know my nature and how easily distracted I can be. There’s only so much “zone” my brain will allow. So, is the ability to have that kind of mental game in our DNA? I think so. Oh, we can work on it and train our minds and improve, but I think our potential in this capacity is hardwired. The thing is, we don’t know what we’re capable of so we can just keep pushing and trying. And when we hit a wall, we can go get new equipment because there must be something else going on. (If we “upgrade” from the latest driver to the greatest driver and it helps, it’s probably a placebo effect anyway.) Oh, don’t you love this game?
Demonstrating how the USGA can play all the games it wants and it won’t bother him, Tiger recently commented on the meaninglessness of par (I agree). Talking about how the USGA makes changes to par for certain holes and tournaments, he said:
It’s just going out there and shooting a number, people! Sure, mine’s (way) above par and his is below. Eh… Par, shmar.
Anyway, I have to wonder what goes on in Tiger’s mind during a round. Not par. Not comments from wishful rivals. Is it the number? Certain swing thoughts? Is it like a chamber of silence?
Is it possible to be hyperbolic when discussing Tiger?
Is Tiger approaching a singularity to transcend even his own biological limitations? Someday, will there be a chip we can install in our brains that will allow us to do the same? Am I totally geeking out right now? Will I ever be able to write anything besides a question again? Is it time for a martini?