The Day I Nearly Quit Golf
Today I made the mistake of believing I was improving.
It started innocently enough. I stood on the first tee, looked down the fairway and thought, “Today feels different.”
That was my first mistake.
The drive went straight down the middle.
Not slightly left. Not slightly right.
Straight.
I actually stood there for a moment wondering if I had accidentally hit someone else’s ball.
“That’s it,” I thought. “I’ve finally figured this game out.”
By the third hole, I was already thinking about how good my handicap was going to look by Christmas.
By the fifth, I was mentally planning my acceptance speech for winning the club championship.
By the seventh, I was standing in a bunker asking myself why I had ever trusted a sport that requires me to hit a tiny ball with a stick.
The wheels really came off on the eighth.
I had 135 metres to the pin.
Perfect distance for a nice, controlled 7-iron.
I took a deep breath, relaxed my shoulders and told myself to make a smooth swing.
I then proceeded to hit the ball approximately 14 metres.
It travelled so slowly I had time to watch it land, stop, think about its life choices and roll gently into a bunker.
My playing partner said, “Bit short.”
I considered hitting him with the 7-iron.
Instead, I smiled.
Golf teaches you patience.
Apparently it also teaches you about the Australian prison system.
By the back nine, I had completely abandoned technique.
I was no longer thinking about swing plane, grip pressure or weight transfer.
My entire strategy had become:
Hit ball. Find ball. Swear. Repeat.
Then came the 17th.
I hit the best shot of the day.
A beautiful drive. Right down the middle.
I was so pleased with it that I immediately started walking towards it before the ball had even stopped.
This is dangerous behaviour.
It creates expectations.
I reached my ball, looked at the pin and decided I could reach the green with a 5-iron.
A sensible golfer would have laid up.
I am not a sensible golfer.
I hit the 5-iron.
The ball disappeared into a large collection of trees that, until that exact moment, I had not realised were there.
I stood looking at the trees.
The trees stood looking at me.
We both knew what had happened.
On the 18th, I told myself I would finish with a par.
I made a double bogey.
As I walked off the course, I made a solemn promise.
I’m quitting golf.
No more frustration.
No more lost balls.
No more three-putts.
No more standing in the middle of a fairway wondering how a perfectly good shot ended up behind a tree.
I’m done.
Finished.
Never playing again.
Anyway…
I’ve booked a tee time for Saturday.
I think I’m getting the hang of this.
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