Golf Fore the Good

After weeks lying dormant as a frozen wasteland, and hopes that the course might open the week before dashed by a surprise blanket of snow, the golf course opened Friday. The last vestiges of ice and snow washed away by the rain that followed the storm, golfers flocked to the course, drawn like dying men in the desert to a shimmering mirage.

Sure, the sun was shining, but a wicked wind blew from the north. From the inside looking out, the day looked bright and beautiful but it was only an illusion. Still, they came to play a round, hit some balls, swing a club, just to say they did. After weeks, if not months of deprivation, golfers came out in force.

Not I. The wind instigated a game of cat and mouse between the sun and clouds that meant the outdoor comfort level scuttled somewhere between simply cold and downright frigid. The mercury peaked at 42 degrees on Saturday - the wind chill was much, much colder. I was hugely tempted to play, as famished as I am for a game, but just couldn’t quite muster the courage.

On Saturday evening I attended a local function, rife with familiar faces from the golf course. The common question of the evening, bantered back and forth from golfer to golfer, was “did you play today?” Those who had played wore their game like a badge of honor, cheeks and hands still ruddy from the cold. Those who hadn’t, like myself, hung on every word, thirsting for just a taste of their round.

Some had managed only nine holes before the weather did them in, but others persevered and had tales to tell of eighteen holes. “How was it out there?” I craved the details. “A little chilly,” said one. “The wind was brutal,” admitted another. “It was f—ing cold out there!” confessed a third. But there was not a man or woman among them who regretted a single moment on the golf course. Oh, how I wished I’d played.