A few weeks ago, I did what I call a body survey. Beginning at my skull and ending at the bottoms of my feet, I counted up all of the external parts of my body – two eyes, two ears, one nose … two shoulders, two elbows, 10 fingers … two knees, two ankles, 10 toes – I ended up with a total of 48 or so, give or take a pinkie.
I then scanned those body parts for aches, pains, soreness, for any issues that impacted my day-to-day living. On that particular day, my left knee ached when I walked up and down stairs, and I had an annoying ingrown nail on my right big toe. Two problems out of 48 body parts — pretty darn good, eh? I was 96% pain free! But that’s not what I was thinking. Instead of feeling grateful or fortunate for my healthy joints and limbs, all I could focus on were my knee and infected toenail.
I was reminded of my body survey a few days ago, on the fairway of the seventh hole at Cherry Hill. I had just hit a 4-hybrid 150 yards, but had sliced it maybe 15 yards to the right, into the rough. My club had made excellent contact and I felt good about my follow-through, but something had produced the slice. A dipped shoulder? An open clubface? A too-late shift in weight? What was it? Why didn’t that ball land dead center in the fairway?
This is my fifth season as a golfer. I started playing at age 66, about 50 years too late to expect to qualify for the Pro-Am or for any tournament that requires a handicap under 30. I’m improving, and on some days, under crystal sunny skies, I even feel capable of hitting in the mid-90s. But, in the words of John Updike, in his fabulous book, “Golf Dreams.” Golf is a square shooter. In the sound of the hit and the flight of the ball it tells us unflinchingly how we are doing, and we are rarely doing well.
Rarely doing well. Yes, I admit, that describes, to a tee, how I usually feel! No matter how relaxed my grip, how slow and easy the backstroke, how solid the contact and complete the follow-through, something usually goes wrong. And why should I be surprised? Who in their right mind expects to swing a 3.25-foot metal stick and make perfect contact with a ball 1.68 inches in diameter, half-hidden in high grass or sandy soil?
And when we do perform the near-miraculous task of striking the ball perfectly, how do we react? Updike likens this golden moment to a releasing of our inner genie. But when the genie is released, “we wind up asking him for ten more yards on the drives, and he goes back in.” Golf is a pastime that never allows for contentment. Smiles turn into moans with a flick of the wrist. No matter how well we play, we can never play well enough.
Golf and life, cut of the same cloth. Feelings of strength, health, and stamina all wind up in life’s rough with one pulled tendon, one twisted ankle or arthritic knuckle. Let’s face it: how often in our daily lives do we feel as though we are strolling toward the 9th green, putter in hand, whistling “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah,” our ball sitting 18 inches from the flag?
Not all that often, dear reader, but perhaps I’m missing the point. Maybe today’s par (or birdie!) is not the final goal or even very important? Perhaps, in the end, it’s not the par we’re after — it’s the possibility of one. In Updike’s words, what we yearn to feel is ” … the bubbling undercurrent of hope, of a tomorrow when skies would be utterly blue and the swing equally pure.”
Amen to that. But, in the meantime, where did that friggin’ 7-iron land?
Gene Stamell resides in Leverett.