Golf Fore the Good

Here in extreme south eastern New England, on our little sandy spit of land jutting out into the Atlantic, we cling to summer longer than other parts of the region. We are blessed with a long, languid fall season, perfect for golf. Barely into fall, the seasonal crush has departed, and we enjoy many late autumn days still warm and almost balmy, as long as southerly winds prevail.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Eventually, our winds turn northerly, the days grow short and our regular golfing days are all but done for the year.

Some naturally gifted golfers can pick up their sticks now and again, indulge in an occasional round, and still play a fine game. I am not among them. Short of the no-brainer-great-round-when-I-haven’t-played-all-season I am usually granted each spring, my game needs constant tending.

A single week without some time on the course and I can stand paralyzed over the ball, contemplating the foreign object in my grasp, questioning my grip, my stance, my club selection. Everything I ever thought I knew about my golf swing is gone, blown away on the breeze through the green.

If not challenging enough on a regular basis, in the off season golf becomes a whole other adventure, altogether.

Our golf is no longer routine, nor does our routine include golf. We play catch as catch can. Even those of us who visit the course daily in season are lucky if we get out once a week.

For the most part, our golf game erodes both from lack of play as well as the damp that creeps into our bones and our backs. We’ll bundle up and play whenever the sun shines or when the winds die to a whisper. Swinging away in the best of the bad weather, we creak like rusty gates, only our layers of wool and wind shirts muffling our misery.

Sunlight and warmth will be in precious short supply for many months to come. We know that every snowless day, every frost free morning is a gift.

When we manage, come the dead of winter, to grab a fast nine or stride the course for even a few, quick holes, we know full well that beggars can’t be choosers. Though we may squawk, and moan, and whine, and lament our lack of play and of practice, the golf we enjoy on a cold winter day is as lovely as a summer bouquet of roses – and surely just as sweet.