"Why Is Golf Mean to Me?"

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book

BY: Nick Henry

When asked "What does golf mean to me?" my knee-jerk Socratic response is "Why is golf mean to me?" Like many amateurs and pros alike, my on-course failures come in every shape and color; snaphooked tee shots, chunked approaches, skulled chips, unfortunate wardrobe choices, to name only a few. Fortunately, most of my humiliations have been witnessed by only my regular playing companions, who are equally, if not more, terrible. One exception however comes to mind.

My youngest brother has always been a great athlete. While I can still hold my own against him in other sports, it was clear from early on that he would be giving me four shots a side for a long time to come. Several years ago, we were lucky enough to have our educational paths cross when he was a freshman and I a third-year law student at the same university. He made the golf team and since I was losing my interest in legal studies, we saw a good deal of each other at the course.

It started out like any other Friday. I dragged myself out of bed at the crack of 11:00 for my 11:30 tee time, drove the two miles to the course, and met three other law school friends who had also made the wise decision to abstain from classes. The first seventeen holes progressed normally. A few pars, a few bogeys, a couple of "others." We had cheeseburgers at the turn (the best in town), several tasteless jokes -- all in all, a typical round. Then we arrived to the par-5 18th. After the downhill tee shot you can either lay up or try to carry a large pond and hill that guard a multi-tiered green that's adjacent to the 10th tee and the clubhouse. I never viewed six as a bad score and was always ecstatic to end my round with a five. After my friend Toby sliced his into the cow pasture and exclaimed his customary profanity, I teed my ball. The result was one of my best -- 290 down the middle (okay, it's a severely downhill tee shot) and in great shape to have a go at it in two. Engulfed in the moment, I did not hesitate as I pulled 3-wood for my second shot. Imagine my surprise as the ball flew off the clubface on a direct line at the pin. Posing, eyes locked on the trajectory, I watched the ball land softly on the middle shelf and trickle up to the top shelf, stopping three feet from the flagstick.

As I strode triumphantly toward the green, I counted on one finger the number of eagles I had made in my life. Sure, there had been chances, but never anything inside of twenty feet. Like an adoring gallery, my friends slapped my back and offered the obligatory congratulations, even Toby who muttered, "Nice shot, loser." Reveling in what was sure to be a dramatic eagle, I was about 50 yards from the green when I noticed two foursomes of swaggering youngsters milling about on the 10th tee. The identical blue and white golf bags gave away their identity as the university golf team, my brother among them. I quickened my pace to call attention to my position which surely even they would admire and hopefully envy. "Hey Bro, check it out. Lying two!" I yelled perhaps a bit too loudly for this sleepy semi-private club. His face beamed his ever-present smile as he yelled back, "Knock it in, dude!"

My friends finished off their sixes and sevens so as to clear the stage for my crowning moment. I felt the eight sets of eyes from the 10th tee on me as I steadied myself over the putt. I took a deep breath and swung the putter back and through.

It missed badly to the right. Never had a chance, never even caught a piece of the cup. The energy of life drained from my limbs as I was dealt this most public of golf failures. My reaction was similar to Curtis Strange's at the 1995 Ryder Cup (walking off the green blank-faced with shock and shame) although inside I felt more like the Reverend in Caddyshack who raises his arms and putter towards the heavens in angry defiance of all the forces that have conspired against him. The golf team collectively just shook their heads and turned away, going back to their mindless undergraduate chatter. My little brother, smile now gone, looked at me and simply offered, "You'll make it next time." A small consolation for the choke of my life.

The day went on and the afternoon beers eased some of the pain. I also started to think about what my brother said. A perfunctory comment, but somehow it made the lesson clear. Just as in the rest of life, there is always hope in golf and it keeps us playing even when we are tempted to deposit our clubs into the nearest water hazard. I will play golf again. I will probably hit some good shots. I may even hit one as good as that 3-wood. And if I do, I'm gonna knock that putt in the dead center of the hole.

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