Long before I ever even picked up a golf club, I wanted to be the kind of person who golfed regularly. A Real Golfer, in other words. Even as a child, I loved the manicured, tightly controlled aesthetic of golf courses—just the right (which is to say, minimal) amount of “nature” for my sensibilities. And then there were the outfits: utterly delightful. (This might be because I grew up during the heyday of Payne Stewart.) The entire bourgeois sensibility appealed to me, really. I wanted to be the kind of man who, after 18 holes at the regular club, regales his buddies at the clubhouse over gin and tonics with tales of the splendid lob he hit on the 8th hole. And did you see that tee shot on 12?
I played a few times in my youth—I never could seem to get the ball through that darn windmill—but only decided this year to pursue the game in earnest. And I’m still pretty shabby—not quite a Real Golfer just yet. More a Real Duffer.
And I love it.
I mostly play public courses in the District of Columbia. These are not the plush clubs of my youthful fantasies—the aesthetic is more midcentury municipal than Second Empire, and you’re more likely to drink a Bud Light than Boodles after a round. But the upside is these courses are cheap: You can play 18 holes for $25 if you walk, as I do (and as all golfers should). And the public courses here have a charmingly demotic nature. Contrary to the usual stereotypes, D.C.’s golfers are highly diverse, both racially and in terms of age.
I’ve also discovered the joys of golf tourism. On a work trip to Guam, I played the glorious Country Club of the Pacific. (I was one of the only non-Japanese on the course and enjoyed a bowl of ramen at the clubhouse after my round.) While at a conference in Cabo San Lucas, I took time for my first official round of Mexican golf. Judging by my performance that day, let’s just say that when America sends their amateur golfers, they’re definitely not sending their best. I also just recently played the Key West Golf Course which, well . . . I hope still exists.
I mostly play alone—golfing has joined reading books and drinking hard liquor in the pantheon of things I prefer doing solo. I leave my pesky smartphone in the car and try to concentrate solely on the game. There are distinct benefits, besides the Zen-like solitude I achieve, to solo-play, as well: I feel less guilty when I cheat and pick up my ball to give it a better lie after a bad hit, for example. But that’s not really that important, because let’s be honest: Like all golfers, I play better when nobody—save for the deer who hang out at my regular Rock Creek Park Golf Course—is watching. Honest!
But I sometimes golf with others. And occasionally, that’s not by choice. Early on in my “career,” as I arrived at the first tee one sunny morning, I was forcibly paired with two golfers who actually knew what they were doing. After briefly contemplating faking an ulcer and begging off while clutching my stomach in mock agony, I ended up playing nine with them. Not only were they patient with my (very) subpar play, but they gave me some helpful tips. There’s also a colleague whom I play with regularly. I’ll keep him anonymous for the sake of his dignity—after all, I beat him every time we play.
I can’t quite put my finger on what I like so much about the game. It’s utterly frustrating, to be sure: There’s the way a tiny, even imperceptible, adjustment to one’s stroke can produce vastly different results. But in any round, there are also, as the cliché has it, those few shots that make you come back again. If only I could find a way to replicate them—another source of frustration. Why does yesterday’s magnificent straight, long drive become tomorrow’s lazy fly ball into the woods?
I suppose that most of all, I simply enjoy the game at some sort of sub-intellectual level. I’m hitting a ball with a stick—what’s not to like? Indeed, it’s one of the few challenging activities I enjoy while I’m doing it—and not merely the sensation, hours later, of having done it. Whether that makes me a Real Golfer or a duffer, well, what could be better?
