Golf has been described many different ways, perhaps most memorably by Mark Twain as “a good walk spoiled.” I understand that sentiment but like to think I can transcend it from time to time. For instance, there was the time I launched a 5 iron from the rough on number 15 at my local and it came to rest inches away from the cup for a tap-in birdie. But generally, my game can best be described as one that vacillates between the good, the bad, and the ugly. I can live with that.
But I while I strive to improve, I don’t really care if I become a scratch player. I have goals; I admit that.
Every year, I keep a ringer scorecard: the lowest score on each hole over the course of that year. Last year, I managed a 61, pretty good for someone with an uneven game and a 19 handicap. I would be happy if each round I played was south of 90, but I’m not quite there yet. But that’s not really the point. It’s not the quantitative analysis that keeps me coming back for another round. No; it’s the qualitative aspect of the game that, like the Supremes, keeps me hanging on.
I play most of my golf at Chester River Yacht and Country Club, a country club over on Maryland’s Eastern Shore that is longer on country than it is on club. It’s a relaxed place: there are no tee times and very rarely do we ever wait on other players in front of us. In fact, very rarely do we even see other players anywhere on the course. Four-hour rounds are common; often a friend and I can get around in under three. Even more importantly, the place is beautiful: herons stalk the ponds, eagles or ospreys soar overhead, and snapping turtles have been known to lay their eggs in the sand traps around number 12. At dawn or dusk, the course is a splendidly silent place, lit from within by a thousand glowing candles, an outdoor cathedral that beckons the pilgrim and recharges his weary soul
But even that is not why I play. I play for friendship. There is regular gaggle of golfers I play with on Saturdays at noon. We’re of roughly even ability, even temperament, and almost even intellect. (I say ‘almost’ because one of us has a couple of Pulitzers in his bag.) There is plenty of good fellowship on the course and in the bar. We applaud good shots and say little about bad ones; if any money changes hands, it is very little and immediately disbursed on drink by the winner. Bitterness never rears its ugly head; disappointment never lingers long.
I have given each my pals a nickname which I write down on our common scorecard to preserve anonymity and to keep things light. There is Eggman, a house painter so named because he is convinced that the egg proceeded the chicken; The Knife because his surname is Mack; Jim goes by Dan because his surname sounds like that funk band of the 90s, Steely Dan. “Crumpets” lives part of the year in London. Then there is Hoondog, Clark, Letters, and Rub; the last relates to the fact that the bearer once took a course in Swedish massage. I am called Steve because on occasion I hit low stingers that fly like bullets that reminded the Eggman of an old Steve McQueen movie. (NB: one cannot give one’s self a nickname; it must be bestowed by another, like a knighthood.)
We are friends on and off the course. Although I am relatively new to the group, we have pushed each through middle age and on toward retirement. In fact, Crumpets just crossed that threshold; I expect his handicap will be going down this summer.
So that’s why I play: to be part of a couple of foursomes moving companionably along the fairways of life, avoiding the hazards whenever possible and occasionally tapping in for birdie.
Fore!
After careers in both international development (Special Olympics) and secondary education (Landon School), Jamie Kirkpatrick bought a home on the Eastern Shore in 2011. Now he’s a happily married freelance writer and photographer who plays golf and the bagpipes with equal facility. Jamie’s writing and photography have appeared in The Baltimore Sun and The Philadelphia Inquirer. He is currently at work on a new book called “Musing Right Along.
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Richard Skinner says
The penetrating insight to this tale is given out by the statement that the author “plays golf and the bagpipes with equal facility.” Seeing as how bagpipes are incapable of being played any other way than God-awful, the reader can only assume the author’s golf game is well beyond the Pale.