Playing golf with a bad back isn’t an easy task. First off, a player might try to adjust his or her swing to not aggravate the condition. That’s how a lot of those take-it-back-half-way-and-punch-it-easy abbreviated swings you can observe on the course developed, I’m sure. Better to get out and play, than not play at all, one can rationalize.
Personally, I don’t have a half-way button. It’s pretty much all or nothing for me, whether we’re discussing golf or almost anything else. A half-punch swing might work for me out of the woods and under trees but to expect me to continuously rein it in for eighteen holes, well, I would have to have serious immobilizing issues to make that happen. This explains why, after a week of near paralyzing pain and a subsequent cortisone shot in my SI joint, I still just had to go out and play golf. Not just one round, mind you, but a three day tournament, proceeded by several practice rounds. Those rounds were followed by a few more rounds just because the weather was amazing and the season grows short and I was not quite sure when I’d have the chance to play again.
And that, you have to understand, is what lead me to the desperate measure I took today. Wedging my golf in-between mornings spent conscientiously doing Pilates
When I golf, I generally walk and carry my clubs. I also have what even very large, strong men have deemed to be one of the heaviest golf bags they’ve ever lifted. It isn’t about my make, model or style of golf bag. I’m sure I purchased only the best, one of those two and a half pound super light efficiency models.
So, it finally occurred to me, after a leisurely nine holes and another evening of ice packs, that perhaps it was my golf bag, banging into my lower back, step after step, hole after hole, that was aggravating my back. As a result, I thought I’d borrow my husband’s state-of-the-art Sun Mountain Speed Cart
Feeling a bit like a wuss, still in the privacy of my garage, I packed up the push cart and my clubs in the back of my car and headed for the course. My first problem with the cart arose as I rushed to the tee. Keep in mind, I usually grab my clubs, throw on a pair of loosely laced shoes and I’m good to go. I now found myself wrestling with a set of ungainly wheels, some twisty screw valve things, a handle that looked like I could shovel snow and Velcro straps that vaguely resembled what I’d just left at home to plaster ice packs to my back. It seemed like way too much work right from the start. For my health, I thought… I can do this.
Let me be clear, I hold no ill will against those who choose to push or pull their clubs rather then carry them. Many of my friends have push carts and swear by their convenience and ease of use. They think I’m a bit crazy for carrying my clubs but I insist, in a sort of George Carlin vein of thought, I need to have my stuff near me – my clubs, I mean - at all times. A cart of any sort puts too much distance between me and my stuff.
Thankfully, just as THE CART was about to win our wrestling match, my husband pulled up (in his motorized golf cart, of course) and hollered instructions sufficient to set me on my way, albeit somewhat awkwardly, pushing THE CART toward the first tee.
My first thought was that it felt like pushing a baby carriage with a 25 pound, lopsided newborn. My second thought was oddly reminiscent of pushing an overloaded grocery cart through a muddy parking lot. Neither of the aforementioned are high up on my list of fun things to do. Somehow, it wasn’t working for me.
Did I mention the color of THE CART? An eerie glow seemed to radiate from its hulking frame painted school bus yellow. No matter where I parked the thing it was everywhere in my peripheral vision. And the parking thing… that was a whole new issue, what with uphill, downhill, brake on, brake off. If this was a road test, I surely would not have passed. I missed the simple, practiced plop down of my bag on its crooked yet reliable little stand.
Maybe it is because I hadn’t used a non-motorized cart since my first year of playing golf. Back then there were few deluxe push carts on the market, just plain old-fashioned pull carts. I found them absurdly unwieldy and unstable and their use twisted my bad back like a pretzel.
It was never actually my choice to give up the pull cart in favor of a carry bag. To be sure, the switch did not take place without a traumatic day of pain and suffering.
As often happened in those days, I was invited on a road trip with my friend, an up-and-coming young pro who managed to procure comped rounds for us at various local golf courses nearly every week. This particular opportunity was at a private course, closed for the day except for employees and “guests” such as ourselves. As it turned out, no facilities were open; no bar, no snack shack, definitely no cart barn. It was a freebie, but it was also walk and carry only.
This was roughing it for us. We were so spoiled by her status (and my own as her “assistant”) that we rarely expected to carry our bags and had arrived unprepared. I’d left my shaky little pull cart at home. Still, the lure of free golf ahead on very plush and very private fairways was irresistible. So, I soldiered up and threw my single strap bag upon my shoulder.
In those days I suffered not just back pain but severe torticollis that often sent me for rounds of treatment at the chiropractor. I couldn’t even carry a purse on my shoulder for any length of time, never mind a golf bag. It is the closest I’ve ever come to crying on the golf course. Not even carding a 13 in a stroke play championship compared to the pain I was feeling.
I shifted my bag from right to left. I dragged it up hills. I think I kicked and rolled it down hills and very nearly chucked the whole thing into one of the numerous lateral hazards just to be done with it all. But when all was said and done, and we putted out on the final green, I’d found a new religion. For all the pain and discomfort, I realized I liked carrying my golf bag. I’d bonded with my clubs during an 18 hole gestation period and there would be no parting us now. Shortly thereafter I discovered the double strap bag and further solidified my relationship.
My push cart adventure with the big yellow bus lasted exactly two holes. My tracks through the fescue after a bad drive left a swath that could be mistaken for crop circles. I wobbled up the first fairway like a drunken sailor, had a near roll over on the second hole and was close to exhaustion before discovering I’d pushed the darn thing all the way up hill with the foolish brake on.
It took but a moment on the third tee to free my golf bag from the trappings of the push cart. I thrust the contraption onto the back of my husband’s golf cart and, just for spite, secured it there with an extra hard yank on the Velcro straps. In moments I was happily striding the fairway, my clubs clinking and clacking from the bag on my back, music to my ears.
After all, a little pain is a small price to pay for a good close relationship.
