Golf Fore the Good

Perhaps the golf gods took pity on me, my having resorted to penning golf nursery rhymes and all. More accurately, I would guess, my golf drought was bound to come to an end, sooner or later. On a sunny but frigid afternoon, with silly golf ditties ringing in my head, I dejectedly left my office and headed to the golf course for a late afternoon walk with the dog.

If I couldn’t play golf at least I could walk the course, feel the grass beneath my feet and dream of warmer days to come. I didn’t know just then that sooner, rather than later, I’d feel back in the swing of things.

I had spent the afternoon lamenting my lack of golf activity. Already in the middle of March, spring felt ages away. In Atlanta, my brother was playing golf; my friends were in having fun in the sun in Florida, my sister in Mexico; early spring issues of golf magazines touted golf cruises and depicted perfect golf vacations. I was desperate for some time on the golf course. At the very least I needed to feel like a golfer, to spend some time with my head in the game, if not my sticks on my back and a club in my hands.

I found little solace at the course that afternoon. The dog made a run at the Canada geese who have laid claim to the back nine all winter but we both knew that the golf course is theirs alone for at least a few more weeks. The squawks and honks mocked our retreating backs as we returned to the warmth of the car and the geese made their way back to the fairways. So much for lifting my spirits.

Ah, spirits…! A new thought popped in my head. I’d grab a drink across town at our other municipal golf course and hope to see a few friendly, if winter weary, faces. As I entered the deserted lobby, beyond which stretched the door to the bar, familiar sounds spilled forth to greet me; the clinking of glasses, the ringing of laughter and the tinkling of golf on TV. I’d come to the right place.

What a relief, I thought, as I ducked in from the cold. At least there were people out and about, and though the day had been frigid, the sun had been shining. There was light at the end of the tunnel. As if drawing the daylight out as long as possible, the bar was still buzzing. If not much else besides good company, the course bar offers one of the best sunset views on the east coast. To go along with the glorious sunset, I was soon to hear one of the best golf narratives I’d heard all winter – or ever, for that matter. My dismal mood faded away with the setting sun as I sat and listened and smiled.

The story teller shall remain nameless, at his request. Should the day come - and it may well be right around the corner - that his name is in the headlines, that he is burning it up on the Champions Tour – this tale might make a great chapter for his memoirs. As a golfer, the man already has a bag full of tales to tell, though it is not in his nature to boast or to gloat. Catch him at the right time and place and the stories spill out like gold, little nuggets of golf that leave you richer for just hearing them. This was one of those times.

The same as the rest of us, this gentleman was winding down from a work day and had stopped for a moment at the pub. The Arnold Palmer Invitational at Bay Hill murmured from the TV above the bar. “I’ve played there,” he said, “have I told you?”

He’s played a lot of places. What made this special, I wondered? And then he told me.

As a young college age kid in the 70’s, with a stellar game, he’d been invited to golf at Bay Hill. A fortuitous pairing sent him off the tee in a group with a truly legendary figure of golf and, of course, a match with the same.

“What do you play to?” the legend queried. “Scratch” said my friend. “Fine - two a side.” And off they went.

There at the bar, as this golfer recounted to us a retrospective of that long ago round, I could imagine the thrill of playing in the company he kept that day. His narrative brought alive the excitement of a good match, a competition that any golfer could appreciate.

My friend, as often happens, stood up well to the challenge. Down at the turn, two eagles on the back brought him and his partner back to the club house on top and the amateurs took the match from the pro.

And so went the story of my friend at Bay Hill, the telling of which was like a balm to my soul. It was a shot in the arm, a jolt to my spirit, a reminder of the company that I, as a golfer, am lucky enough to keep. What an incredible game it is that we play! A young amateur can tee it up alongside a seasoned professional for a match; proletariat against aristocrat; the commoner vs. the king; golf is a game that humbles us all while leaving us all ever hopeful. Even when spring seems eons away, the essence of the game remains.