Monday, June 30, 2008
On Tiger, golf and life
Steve Huff
Recent columns
- Leave the oil in the ground
- Tired, old elephant dressed in lipstick and heels
- Time to reshuffle the deck
- Knowing where to draw the line
From the RoundTable blog
I have dreams about Tiger Woods. Typically I'm scrambling around looking for my clubs or wallet, then driving around lost and frantic as he waits on the tee.
It's like that other stress dream I have, where college exams are coming up and I haven't been to class. Both dreams emerge from a devious subconscious, bent on spoiling two beloved pastimes: learning and golf.
The two, I've found, have a lot in common.
I took up golf in my teens. My buddies and I would bum a ride to the course. In a pinch we'd strap our clubs to our bikes. We'd fork over some crumpled dollars or a roll of coins, load our bags onto squeaky pull carts and stride into the blazing sun.
We didn't dwell on what always drew us back, but having since been to Vegas, I think I understand. Just as one minor jackpot banishes the memory of a hundred empty pulls, one great golf shot can keep you awake for a week.
After you hit that shot you begin to think you've figured it out. You try to groove that swing with your "air club" in the shower, at the coffee shop, at your brother's wedding.
You fantasize about next weekend. Maybe you'll break 100, 90, 80. Maybe you'll take some money off your buddies. You could become the man to beat, the "A" player.
Realistically, each round will produce just a few good shots. Each summer will produce a few good rounds. Each lifetime, a few good seasons. No matter how good you get, you'll always crave more.
You'll devour golf magazines and books, order gadgets from the Golf Channel, splurge on the latest clubs. After a few years of stagnant scores and an increasingly cluttered garage, you'll come to realize that it's not about books or gadgets or equipment.
It's about that 6-inch space, as Bobby Jones quipped, between your ears. It's about hanging around the practice green with your wedge and putter rather than beating your driver to death on the range. It's forgetting what you've done -- good or bad -- and moving on to the next shot. It's balancing risk and reward, harnessing anger and excitement, staying cool and still having fun. It's about life.
A mellow man on the course will mutter under his breath and thump his clubs. The average temperament will sling a club and shout a few things he regrets. The hot-head will heave his entire bag into the lake. (He will then retrieve it and finish the round.)
An honest man might cheat. A cheater will sell his soul. A teetotaler will consider beer. A beer drinker will switch to liquor.
The self-actualized golfer, on the other hand, will recognize his folly and put up his clubs forever. Those people aren't much fun, but fortunately they are quite rare.
The stories recycle from week to week: Joe set a record for utterances of the "F" word; Edd got the shank-monkey off his back; Ralph was picked last again but posted the best score.
Some stories survive the year: Jimmy drove his cart into the pond. Bob fought his way back from heart surgery. Remember when Bruce came down from Baltimore?
Some stories live forever: Tiger Woods won the U.S. Open after hobbling 19 extra holes on a torn ACL and two stress fractures.
I kept up with that match, I admit, on my computer at work. Earl Woods, Tiger's late father and mentor, could not repeat "the hug felt round the world," that heartrending embrace on the 18th green after Tiger won his first Masters. Tiger's new wife and baby surely helped to fill that void.
That's where it's at: the stories and the drama, the competition and companionship, the achievement and exertion, the joy and the pain.
Next time I get a chance at Tiger, my clubs will be clean, my greens fees paid, my game face on. After the round, we'll have a beer and talk about our dads, both of whom loved the game and died around the same time. Tiger will grudgingly hand over my winnings. I'll give him a little advice on his knee. He'll sign a few balls for my buddies and a copy of his book for me. We'll reserve another tee time, and all week long he'll plot his revenge.
In my dreams.
Huff, who lives in Patrick County and practices family medicine, is a columnist for The Roanoke Times.
