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 The depression comes on like a virus, infects every part of my game and ultimately leads to the need for a break. This year I felt it coming for a while. There was nothing particularly good about any part of my game, and there were just enough bad shots to make me wonder why anyone would bother wasting four or five hours launching expensive golf balls into oblivion. During one particularly forgettable round, my spine just checked out. It was done. I tried to finish, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I’ve had back pain before, but nothing like this. My arms were numb and my feet were tingly. It felt like my lower back had separated from the rest of my spine and I was fairly certain that a rib was piercing my heart on every swing. I got home and took my golf clubs out of the car. Days turned into weeks and I had no interest in even touching a club. Two months went by and the closest I came to playing was shifting the position of my bag in the garage so I could get to a broom. My back started feeling better, but hitting a golf ball had fallen down the list of priorities to somewhere between painting the bedroom and remembering to eat my vegetables. I needed something new to inspire me. I went to one of those giant demo days and went up and down the line of the major manufacturers hoping that a club might become a new muse. I also secretly hoped I could turn it into an article. I tried different clubs and listened to all the jargon. Each sales representative proclaimed to have the latest and greatest technology, but they all clammed up when I pulled out the tape recorder and asked them to go on record and tell me why this new club was better than my old one. I was so bummed by the lack of willingness to stand behind the daring proclamations that I went home. There were no new clubs and no story. One morning, while preparing to go through my daily stretching routine that allows me to swing a golf club and perform a variety of other generally normal physical activities without a significant amount of pain, my 8-year-old son asked me a simple question: “Why do you stretch every day?” I told him I do it so it doesn’t hurt when I play golf. Then, he hit me with a great follow-up: “Why do you play golf if it hurts?” “I have no idea,” I replied. But it made me think. Why do I play golf? It’s not to be great. I break 80 just often enough to make people think I know what I’m doing, but I also hit enough bad shots to make me want to bend club shafts around my head. Why do I continue to do this after 30 years when my greatest hope is to not embarrass or injure myself when I play? Every bad thought ran through my head. Hooking a shot so far left that it’s out of bounds before it leaves the club. Laying the sod over an iron from a perfect lie. Topping a tee shot. Shanking a wedge after a perfect drive. Failing to hit the cup from inside 2 feet. I felt like I could never play another round and be content. A few days later, I felt an amazing surge of energy and wanted to hit a golf shot. I wanted to compete. I wanted to feel the exhilarating rush of a well-struck drive. I wanted to see the shot in my head and then execute it perfectly. I wanted to play a punch shot from under a tree and knock it on the green. I wanted to spin the ball out of a greenside bunker to kick-in distance. I wanted to roll in a long putt like the ball was on rails. I wanted to walk a golf course in shorts on a warm day. I wanted to birdie the first hole and last hole of the day. I wanted to play. Out of nowhere, it was as if everything I loved about the game was surging through my body at once. It was 8 o’clock at night, but I wanted to play at that very moment. I called a friend and we met at sun-rise. I walked the golf course that day and remembered why I love to play. |
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