Without my trusty putter, how will I ever find inner calm?
Column: Check Your Head appeared in Fort McMurray Today may 25, 2006.
By DAN MACEACHERN
Today staff
Few things I possess are so simultaneously infuriating and invigorating as my golf clubs. A birthday gift from my wife a few years ago, the clubs represent all that is possible and all that is futile about my hopes and dreams.
The woods are protected with soft, black head covers, emblazoned with the Edmonton Oilers insignia, cause for compliments everywhere but Calgary -- which is fine, because even there, if worse comes to worst, I have golf clubs with which to defend myself.
Up until about five years ago, I wasn't much for golf. I was convinced it was an elitist's sport, one practised mainly by people who wished to show off how much a) leisure time and b) money they have, both of which are needed in abundance if one is ever going to get from tee to cup in four strokes.
My father played, occasionally. But we weren't rich, and Dad, an educator by training and manager by experience, usually had so much on the go that I don't remember him often sneaking out to the golf course for a round. This despite the fact that our house in my hometown of Grande Prairie was separated by a mere strip of greenbelt from the 14th hole of a local course. Wayward tee shots from G.P. duffers meant Dad had plenty of plastic ice cream buckets of golf balls in the garage, for use as needed.
And if I wanted to practise, I could sneak onto the course after dark. But there are a million more interesting things to be sneaking around doing when you're a teenager, so I rarely took advantage.
Then came the college years, and available money went to necessities like beer and, if there was any left over, food. Summers were spent working to pay for tuition and, if I had a particularly lucrative job, textbooks.
But it wasn't long after I started working at newspapers that I discovered the value of spending an afternoon walking 18 holes -- or, if you're with a bunch of out-of-shape newspaper editors, riding around over 18 holes. There were also the frequent charity tournaments at the Moose Jaw newspaper I used to work for, where I discovered the value of a work-sanctioned Friday afternoon off work.
Trouble was, I wasn't actually enjoying myself. The soothing relaxation that a round of golf ought to provide is hampered when you're staring at that dimpled white ball and silently praying to hit it, if not far, then at least straight, and if not straight, at least easily locatable.
I once managed to really wallop a drive, and it was a worm-burner, shooting straight along the ground, until it hit a rock bordering a water hazard and bounced straight back, onto the cartpath -- and rolled past the teebox, my bemused teammates watching it, until it came to a stop, 30 yards behind us. I'd actually managed a drive of negative-30 yards.
But in that same round -- which was during a best-ball tournament, so fortunately my teammates were able to bail me out, hole after hole -- I also sank a 25-foot putt on the very last hole, saving par. One great shot for an entire afternoon, and I was eager to come back for more.
I started playing more regularly, and hitting the driving range for practice. I grew up playing hockey and basketball, and enjoyed the team aspects of those games, but there's something about golf's solitude that appealed to me. You're really only ever playing against yourself, trying to perform better each time you step out on the links. Even if you play competitively, it's still one of the few sports you can play where what your opponent does has no effect on what you do, apart from affecting your strategy; for example, if he's kicking your can, you might be inclined to take a few more chances like going for the green instead of laying up. But even then, you're the one making the shot. You have to line up the putt. If you have a bad lie, it's because you -- not your opponent -- put your ball there.
In high school, I would shoot baskets in my driveway for hours on a battered rim that had travelled with me from the Yukon to Grande Prairie to Calgary, surviving a snapped crosspiece that I welded in the shop class at F.H. Collins in Whitehorse. I'd shoot jump shots around the horn, work on layups from either side, and shoot countless free throws. It was as relaxing to me as a warm bath -- still is, when I visit my parents' home in Calgary and decide to shoot some hoops, only now the net is so stiff that my first few shots get caught in it, and I have to poke the ball out with a broom handle, much like, I imagine, James Naismith's crew of basketball pioneers did with the peach baskets at the YMCA.
I feel that same calm when I'm standing on the driving range with a fresh bucket of balls, every one a potential 250-yard drive or a dead-eye chip shot to within four feet of a flag. Of course, the majority of my practice shots ain't so perfect, but that's why I'm out there. Just as with my driveway basketball, the time affords me some quiet contemplation about everything going on in my life -- or, if I'm doing it right, puts me into a Zen-like trance wherein I don't think about anything but the ball, spinning towards the clouds, seeming to float for a few moments, and then falling back to earth.
But I'm going to be a father this summer, so my Zen-like trances are soon to become few and far between, I suppose. My wife urges me every day on the weekends lately to go golfing, figuring I should get it out of my system, before parenthood eats away at what used to be free time. Fair enough, I suppose -- as I said, I don't remember my father golfing very much when I was growing up, but he does it constantly now, and kicks my ass by at least 20 strokes whenever we play. I suppose I can put the clubs away for a little while.
Or start hitting the range at lunchtime. Yeah, that works better. Lunchtime, that's it.
Sweet.
© Copyright 2006, Fort McMurray Today.
By DAN MACEACHERN
Today staff
Few things I possess are so simultaneously infuriating and invigorating as my golf clubs. A birthday gift from my wife a few years ago, the clubs represent all that is possible and all that is futile about my hopes and dreams.
The woods are protected with soft, black head covers, emblazoned with the Edmonton Oilers insignia, cause for compliments everywhere but Calgary -- which is fine, because even there, if worse comes to worst, I have golf clubs with which to defend myself.
Up until about five years ago, I wasn't much for golf. I was convinced it was an elitist's sport, one practised mainly by people who wished to show off how much a) leisure time and b) money they have, both of which are needed in abundance if one is ever going to get from tee to cup in four strokes.
My father played, occasionally. But we weren't rich, and Dad, an educator by training and manager by experience, usually had so much on the go that I don't remember him often sneaking out to the golf course for a round. This despite the fact that our house in my hometown of Grande Prairie was separated by a mere strip of greenbelt from the 14th hole of a local course. Wayward tee shots from G.P. duffers meant Dad had plenty of plastic ice cream buckets of golf balls in the garage, for use as needed.
And if I wanted to practise, I could sneak onto the course after dark. But there are a million more interesting things to be sneaking around doing when you're a teenager, so I rarely took advantage.
Then came the college years, and available money went to necessities like beer and, if there was any left over, food. Summers were spent working to pay for tuition and, if I had a particularly lucrative job, textbooks.
But it wasn't long after I started working at newspapers that I discovered the value of spending an afternoon walking 18 holes -- or, if you're with a bunch of out-of-shape newspaper editors, riding around over 18 holes. There were also the frequent charity tournaments at the Moose Jaw newspaper I used to work for, where I discovered the value of a work-sanctioned Friday afternoon off work.
Trouble was, I wasn't actually enjoying myself. The soothing relaxation that a round of golf ought to provide is hampered when you're staring at that dimpled white ball and silently praying to hit it, if not far, then at least straight, and if not straight, at least easily locatable.
I once managed to really wallop a drive, and it was a worm-burner, shooting straight along the ground, until it hit a rock bordering a water hazard and bounced straight back, onto the cartpath -- and rolled past the teebox, my bemused teammates watching it, until it came to a stop, 30 yards behind us. I'd actually managed a drive of negative-30 yards.
But in that same round -- which was during a best-ball tournament, so fortunately my teammates were able to bail me out, hole after hole -- I also sank a 25-foot putt on the very last hole, saving par. One great shot for an entire afternoon, and I was eager to come back for more.
I started playing more regularly, and hitting the driving range for practice. I grew up playing hockey and basketball, and enjoyed the team aspects of those games, but there's something about golf's solitude that appealed to me. You're really only ever playing against yourself, trying to perform better each time you step out on the links. Even if you play competitively, it's still one of the few sports you can play where what your opponent does has no effect on what you do, apart from affecting your strategy; for example, if he's kicking your can, you might be inclined to take a few more chances like going for the green instead of laying up. But even then, you're the one making the shot. You have to line up the putt. If you have a bad lie, it's because you -- not your opponent -- put your ball there.
In high school, I would shoot baskets in my driveway for hours on a battered rim that had travelled with me from the Yukon to Grande Prairie to Calgary, surviving a snapped crosspiece that I welded in the shop class at F.H. Collins in Whitehorse. I'd shoot jump shots around the horn, work on layups from either side, and shoot countless free throws. It was as relaxing to me as a warm bath -- still is, when I visit my parents' home in Calgary and decide to shoot some hoops, only now the net is so stiff that my first few shots get caught in it, and I have to poke the ball out with a broom handle, much like, I imagine, James Naismith's crew of basketball pioneers did with the peach baskets at the YMCA.
I feel that same calm when I'm standing on the driving range with a fresh bucket of balls, every one a potential 250-yard drive or a dead-eye chip shot to within four feet of a flag. Of course, the majority of my practice shots ain't so perfect, but that's why I'm out there. Just as with my driveway basketball, the time affords me some quiet contemplation about everything going on in my life -- or, if I'm doing it right, puts me into a Zen-like trance wherein I don't think about anything but the ball, spinning towards the clouds, seeming to float for a few moments, and then falling back to earth.
But I'm going to be a father this summer, so my Zen-like trances are soon to become few and far between, I suppose. My wife urges me every day on the weekends lately to go golfing, figuring I should get it out of my system, before parenthood eats away at what used to be free time. Fair enough, I suppose -- as I said, I don't remember my father golfing very much when I was growing up, but he does it constantly now, and kicks my ass by at least 20 strokes whenever we play. I suppose I can put the clubs away for a little while.
Or start hitting the range at lunchtime. Yeah, that works better. Lunchtime, that's it.
Sweet.
© Copyright 2006, Fort McMurray Today.
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