By Reid Champagne
Golf is essentially an exercise in masochism conducted out-of-doors.
~Paul O'Neil
All of us would be most fortunate if we could go through life without ever having to experience the five stages of grief. But grief touches us all eventually. And most of us will find a way to get through it and move on.
Golf is essentially an exercise in masochism conducted out-of-doors.
~Paul O'Neil
All of us would be most fortunate if we could go through life without ever having to experience the five stages of grief. But grief touches us all eventually. And most of us will find a way to get through it and move on.
Golf grief is a different matter entirely. I once played with a scratch golfer who, after missing a makeable birdie putt, slammed his putter against his shoe in disgust, his face contorted in anger. He went on to shoot even par for the round, but was still steamed about that missed birdie that would have broken par for the day.
I, on the other hand, would have needed that birdie putt for a smooth 94, instead of the 97 I wound up shooting, finishing the day steamed that my putt for double-bogey on that same hole had lipped the cup. Golf anger is fungible; it can be expressed the same way by a golfer who fails to break par as for one who fails to break 100. But anger is only one of the six stages of golf grief. Yes, in golf, grief is extended by one additional stage, the one that eventually gives golf grief its eternal quality.
The denial stage begins on the first tee, and generally follows what you just confided to your playing partners is the best warm-up on the range you've ever experienced. Then you step up and send one dead right and short over the OB stakes. "That can't be me!" you scream in protest.
But the anger stage soon follows as hole after hole fails to generate anything near the effortless and flowing swings from the range. In your tempestuous, club-slamming wake you leave fairways mottled with divots that resemble a strip mining operation.
The start of the back nine is where the bargaining stage of golf grief commences. You tell yourself it's a whole new nine, and that you can still salvage a sub-90 round (overlooking the naked fact that you'll have to break 40 in order to do so). Your buddies may confuse your bargaining stage simply as denial all over again, since there has been nothing in your game so far to suggest that the back nine won't actually be worse than the front.
And so the depression stage inevitably appears around the 15th hole, when your mental calculations indicate you'll need to go birdie-birdie-eagle just to finish on the number at 90. "Guys, I hate to say this, but this is the last round of golf I'm ever going to play. I just can't take this anymore." Of course, your buddies, who have kept a running diary of such pronouncements, take this statement in stride, believing it to be just another form of denial on your part.
Suddenly, however, you step up to the 18th tee, and for the first time that day, stripe a drive that splits the center in a gentle draw, reminiscent of what you had produced back on the range. Your approach shot flies high and on target, landing on the green ten feet from the cup. You firmly drain for a birdie, resulting in that smooth 94 you would have settled for just a couple of rounds ago. Acceptance, this fifth stage of golf grief, now flows like honey through your veins, as your buddies tell each other, "Well, that'll bring the moron back again," and you realize at last that improvement will be episodic rather than progressive. "Maybe I will play tomorrow after all," you announce, confirming what your buddies had already (and reluctantly) deduced.
And it is that that brings you to the doorstep of golf grief's sixth and final stage: repetition. It is the stage that proves that golf grief is something we continually aspire to, rather than try to avoid. From the guy who can't stand life itself because he failed to break par, to the guy who can't stand life itself because he failed to break 100, golf freely provides the grief that keeps on giving for those who just can't ever seem to get enough of it.
This is why the question "How much golf is too much?" really has no answer, until we can first answer "How much golf grief is too much?" And so we continue to return in Buddhist-like repetition to torture ourselves through the stages of golf grief all over again. But it is those who ultimately learn to embrace that eternal grief who attain golf's Nirvana, the stage at which we learn to play without a scorecard or a handicap, but just to enjoy a pleasant, unspoiled walk in God's great universe.
In other words, the cycle of denial is complete again.
I, on the other hand, would have needed that birdie putt for a smooth 94, instead of the 97 I wound up shooting, finishing the day steamed that my putt for double-bogey on that same hole had lipped the cup. Golf anger is fungible; it can be expressed the same way by a golfer who fails to break par as for one who fails to break 100. But anger is only one of the six stages of golf grief. Yes, in golf, grief is extended by one additional stage, the one that eventually gives golf grief its eternal quality.
The denial stage begins on the first tee, and generally follows what you just confided to your playing partners is the best warm-up on the range you've ever experienced. Then you step up and send one dead right and short over the OB stakes. "That can't be me!" you scream in protest.
But the anger stage soon follows as hole after hole fails to generate anything near the effortless and flowing swings from the range. In your tempestuous, club-slamming wake you leave fairways mottled with divots that resemble a strip mining operation.
The start of the back nine is where the bargaining stage of golf grief commences. You tell yourself it's a whole new nine, and that you can still salvage a sub-90 round (overlooking the naked fact that you'll have to break 40 in order to do so). Your buddies may confuse your bargaining stage simply as denial all over again, since there has been nothing in your game so far to suggest that the back nine won't actually be worse than the front.
And so the depression stage inevitably appears around the 15th hole, when your mental calculations indicate you'll need to go birdie-birdie-eagle just to finish on the number at 90. "Guys, I hate to say this, but this is the last round of golf I'm ever going to play. I just can't take this anymore." Of course, your buddies, who have kept a running diary of such pronouncements, take this statement in stride, believing it to be just another form of denial on your part.
Suddenly, however, you step up to the 18th tee, and for the first time that day, stripe a drive that splits the center in a gentle draw, reminiscent of what you had produced back on the range. Your approach shot flies high and on target, landing on the green ten feet from the cup. You firmly drain for a birdie, resulting in that smooth 94 you would have settled for just a couple of rounds ago. Acceptance, this fifth stage of golf grief, now flows like honey through your veins, as your buddies tell each other, "Well, that'll bring the moron back again," and you realize at last that improvement will be episodic rather than progressive. "Maybe I will play tomorrow after all," you announce, confirming what your buddies had already (and reluctantly) deduced.
And it is that that brings you to the doorstep of golf grief's sixth and final stage: repetition. It is the stage that proves that golf grief is something we continually aspire to, rather than try to avoid. From the guy who can't stand life itself because he failed to break par, to the guy who can't stand life itself because he failed to break 100, golf freely provides the grief that keeps on giving for those who just can't ever seem to get enough of it.
This is why the question "How much golf is too much?" really has no answer, until we can first answer "How much golf grief is too much?" And so we continue to return in Buddhist-like repetition to torture ourselves through the stages of golf grief all over again. But it is those who ultimately learn to embrace that eternal grief who attain golf's Nirvana, the stage at which we learn to play without a scorecard or a handicap, but just to enjoy a pleasant, unspoiled walk in God's great universe.
In other words, the cycle of denial is complete again.
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