Golf is a Man. He Abuses Me, But I’m Staying With Him.

Golf must be a man, because he’s so frustrating! He pleases and punishes. Can’t live with him, can’t kill him. Just when I think we have one issue sorted out, another one arises. If golf wasn’t hard challenging, I wouldn’t be interested. As far as I know, there’s no shelter for abused golfers and besides, the way I’ve been playing, it seems more like I’m the abuser – but golf had it coming!

In my open letter to golf, I declared my love for him and many of the reasons I feel the way I do. It has been a torrid love affair since then. We’ve had our differences for sure, but there are few conditions that will keep me away from golf. I even appreciate a sloppy, wet round. When conditions aren’t ideal for going out, I always want them to be. I can’t think of a time I haven’t wanted to play golf or wished I could when I couldn’t! I recently experienced a new level of that obsession. Last weekend, I actually dreaded going out to play golf.  It wasn’t the weather, which couldn’t have been more perfect, and it wasn’t a personal distraction or some kind of illness or injury. It wasn’t a mandatory business round with some kind of douchebag, it was with friends whose company I really enjoy. No, the whole reason I was sour for the entire 24 hours leading up to my tee time was because I was incredibly disheartened due to my own ineptitude. Yet there was no way I wasn’t going. I was still absolutely compelled to get out there, like the true sadomasochist golf has made me.

My newest golf training aid

State of the Union

For about a year now, I’ve been struggling with “The Process.” You know, the one when you make a swing change and nothing will ever be the same? I want to get better. The goal is to break 80. My scores ballooned and now I don’t remember the last time I even broke 90, and it’s a “good” day when I break 100. At first, I was okay with that – it was somewhat expected, though aggravating all the same. I had breakthroughs and saw improvement. I had hope. Even when I sucked or regressed, I was convinced I could power through and it would all be worth it. Then it became embarrassing. And infuriating. And counter-productive.  Bad thoughts didn’t just creep in, they infested my brain.

I’m keenly aware of the mental aspect of golf and understand these thoughts are debilitating and feed on themselves. Like any golfer, I have plenty of reasons/excuses why this is happening, like my focus being challenged with stresses and my patience being sapped by other aspects of my life. But I know that’s bullshit. I know what I’m capable of and I take pride in my ability to adjust my mindset and change my mind with authority. But this was brutal. I was in a golfer’s shame spiral.

The last few times I’ve played, I’ve managed to hit a few shots that were decent enough to allow me to cling to hope. On the range, it’s been a different story. Perhaps it’s because the good shots don’t really show results, but they became fewer and fewer until I could barely hit a ball at all. Topping it, shanking it, yanking it, worm burning it, spraying it every which way — everything but even the hint of good contact with my irons. After all that work! I went to the course on Saturday with the intention of playing 18 if I could hit a few good shots on the range. I couldn’t. It was a complete nightmare. It finally came crashing down to destroy me mentally.

I have never felt less athletic or more uncoordinated in my life. Humiliated, defeated, and utterly disheartened, I was actually a little nervous at the thought of lifting my bag and carrying it to my car, in case this palsy would affect my ability to walk as well. I managed to make the walk of shame without falling or freezing up and drove home holding back tears. I know – there’s no crying in golf! But that’s how much it means to me.

Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another?

This is where the dread comes in. I had agreed to join my friends the next day for a Sunday Funday round. Though we never mentioned it, we all knew we would also be practicing for our club matches at the same course the following weekend. After feeling like I hit rock bottom (that better be the lowest!), I planned to arrive early enough to give myself a nice, unrushed hour of time on the range, with highest hopes of sucking less, and lowest pathetic goal of just making solid contact a few times to boost my spirits so I could be a fun golfer for my friends. I left home with enough time to carry out that plan, but an overturned semi on the freeway shutting down all lanes had a better idea for me.

Best Laid… Plans

After taking a back way through a winding canyon, I made it to the course right at tee time, checked in & raced to the tee just as my friends finished their drives. So, with nothing but the practice swing of my drive routine, I started my round. Decent drive, just off the fairway to the right, about 150 uphill left to the flag. With an easy swing I made the green with my next shot and two putted for par. What. The. Fuck. It was as though I forgot that I couldn’t play golf. The rest of the round had its ups and downs, much like a normal golf round, not a disastrous one. I made some really good shots, several hard pulls (which had been my primary miss until I started not making contact), and some irritating short game shots including at least 4 3-putts, but was more than pleased with my round of 92.

On the last four holes, I hit three great drives up the middle and 4 solid shots onto the greens. I really felt like I had something figured out on those iron shots. When the round was over, all I wanted to do was go hit another golf ball, and another one after that, but Sir Vito was waiting for me.

We Can Work It Out

I am encouraged, and am holding onto these positive feelings! In case I’m stupid enough to start thinking again, I hope that the simple swing thought I used on those last four holes continues to be effective. Sometimes I can successfully fake my brain out like I’m too naive to the game to understand what’s happening but I think it’s time I give up that tactic. I’m not falling for my own shit anymore. Golf is a man. He tries to act like he doesn’t care about me but I know he doesn’t want me to leave him. Now we’re both mature enough to know that if we want it to be, and I’m patient enough, this partnership will be amazing. If we can get through this, we can get through anything.

Golf can be an asshole, but I’m in love. And I’m not going anywhere.

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