Golf Fore the Good

I stared morosely out the kitchen window, observing the brown and shriveled tomato plants in the patio pot on my deck. In some idiosyncratic way, they reminded me of my golf game.

The plants were given to me in early July by my octogenarian golf partner. She hauled them to the course one Friday in the back seat of her car, the pot nearly bigger than she. Just as she has always tried to nurture the golfer in me, she had high hopes for me as a gardener.

“Water often; feed them; pay attention.” Her instructions were simple and to the point, as is the frequent encouragement she dispenses on the golf course. “Concentrate; and practice, practice, practice.”

I dutifully hauled my new charges home. I placed them in a bright, sunny and most conspicuous spot that I hoped would cause me to pay close attention and encourage nurturing. This, by a woman who needs a reminder system in place just to remember to feed the dog; a woman with a thumb so black I can under water a cactus.

The intent was good; the follow through not quite what it should have been. Seeing the pot of tomato plants each day was a lot like walking by the putting green every time I went to the golf course. There it is, right in my face, but do I stop to practice? Do I nurture my game to the point necessary to produce a quality product? Based on the way my game hit the skids in late summer – not so much.

I played a lot of golf this summer. What I didn’t do was practice - or feed and water my tomato plants.

Each time I played golf with my benefactor, she asked for a progress report on the plants. “How many flowers? How many tomatoes?” she’d query. “Only four?” I could sense her disappointment.

My game was hot and cold each time we played. I made enough good shots to make it look like I was scoring well. The lack of practice was less apparent than the lack of attention to my patio pot. Had she seen the wilted bottom leaves turning a sickly shade of yellow, surely she would have chastised me in her most commanding tone.

July turned to August, and I struggled through the month on the golf course. My game was a mess and my scores were reflecting it. I hit a few balls now and again to straighten myself out, a temporary fix.

The plants leaned rakishly to one side. There was fruit on the vines, if not in abundance, pinkish orbs clinging haphazardly among the now brittle leaves. I found a long, thin metal driveway reflector stake in the garage and tied up the plants. I congratulated myself on the effort. I hit a few more buckets of balls.

Out on the course, I’d make a few good shots and post a pretty good number, and then forget the horrendous round of the previous day. My vow to practice would dissolve with the summer evening’s rain. When it rained, the plants looked better – for the moment.

One morning I awoke and, through bleary eyes, could no longer deny the plight of the patio pot. The plants were tired, drooping and a sickly, jaundiced color top to bottom. They looked like a lost cause. I turned away and headed to the golf course.

My game was a disaster. I shanked, I topped the ball, I chunked my shots. I miss hit chips, I couldn’t putt. I had nothing.

It could no longer be ignored; it was high time to nurture my game. I dedicated the week to some much needed instruction. I practiced, and then I practiced some more, and slowly the life came back into my game. I gained confidence over the ball.

Back at home, the few tomatoes on the vine, despite the pallid appearance of the foliage, were turning a bright, rich red. A few more small green orbs had appeared as well. Things were looking brighter.

I went out and strung a few good rounds together. That’s not to say my game won’t have it’s ups and downs. Golf is never easy.

It is safe to say I’m a better golfer than I am a gardener. There is a much better chance of my playing good golf than harvesting a bumper crop of tomatoes.

I did realize something, though, through my feeble attempt as a horticulturist. There are very few things in life that flourish without care and nourishment. Those little green tomatoes may be left on the vine at the end of the season, but they’re a lot like an imperfect golf game. Things don’t always come out just the way you planned. Every shot might not be hit on the sweet spot, but you can still appreciate the game. That green tomato may appear a bit off its peak, but it has a sweet and pleasing flavor none the less.