Whoever said golf was a good walk spoiled didn't know what he was talking about. He also believes chocolate cake is a waste of sugar, dogs are man’s best reason to get a cat and beer means too many trips to the head. Golf is a walk in the park, often literally, all the time. What other sport combines skill, patience, confidence and hiking? I don’t take pictures while I’m playing softball, unless the other team is all female.
I took a few yesterday, while playing 9 at the legendary Hickory Woods. The sun sinking low, its rays refracted through a prism of trees. The interplay of light and shadow, as clouds the color of a thigh bruise passed through to some more permanent residence. Cleveland, probably. At precisely 428 pm, the light was of that fragile, melancholy and brittle state that so characterizes this time of year. I snapped a phone-photo of the trees and the sky and the world, reflected in a pond bestride the 5th fairway.
I don’t like this time of year. It is a time of dying. My mother died in the fall, when I was 8. Colors all fade, the earth contracts and shivers. Even on the brightest days, the light is thin. It gets dark so soon. I struggle to find beauty in anything. I know what’s coming. It holds no promise.
The reward for death is an appreciation of life. It’s probably why I’ll never move from here. At least not permanently. I never want to take a sunset for granted. I’m afraid if I settled on the west side of Florida, close to gulf sunsets, I’d stop going to see them. Now, when I’m down there, I never miss a sunset. I mean, never.
Hickory Woods was empty yesterday at 3, when I teed off. In fact, I was the only player on the entire course. For 11 bucks, I had my own private club for a few hours. There is a solace on the golf course that cannot be duplicated. I am not one of those people who goes to the links to escape my problems. If I’m having a lousy day off the course, I’m going to have a lousy day on it. Yesterday, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I’d finished a book chapter, I’d worked out. It was 51 degrees on November 26 and I was playing golf.
If you don’t play, you won’t know the joy of a silent afternoon in the epilog of fall, interrupted only by the pure sound of a shot well struck. You won’t find peace in walking with 25 pounds of equipment on your back, watching a red fox cross the fairway 100 yards ahead of you. You won’t hear the wind provoke a scurrying of leaves, winter’s advance men, or notice the whiteness of a sycamore’s bark, and the way its limbs bend over a pond, as if in prayer.
I’ve played lots of sports, if only a few competitively. They all have their pluses. None is a meditation, though. Not like golf. The walk, the hike, the sights and sounds. The good connection to the earth, one step at a time.
The front 9 at Hickory is fairly connected to the man made. Houses don’t intrude on the serene, but they’re there. The road into the place bisects the 5th green and 6th tee. The back-9 is more provoking of reflection and gratitude. But there are places on the front where you can stop and behold what’s good.
Number 2 is like that. It’s an uphill par-3, 160 yards from the blue tees, through a narrow corridor of trees to an equally slender, if long, green. I slapped a 27-degree hybrid that started straight, then faded just enough to catch the right slope and bounce to the edge of the woods. If you play one course enough, you know it the way you know your child’s face. I knew exactly where my ball was. I drew the 58-degree wedge from my quiver and trudged ahead.
That’s when I saw the buck. Fifty yards ahead, just along the treeline, a few feet from my ball.
I stopped. He looked up. We watched each other for awhile. The sun grazed the tops of the trees, the wind made the smaller branches sway. It was quiet enough, I could hear him breathing. The world paused, long enough for me to be grateful I was in it, playing golf, walking the good earth and staring at a buck.
Several years ago, I wrote an entire column counting the virtues of November golf around here. When the weather is passable, which is more often than you think, it’s the best time of year to play. The courses are in great shape, they’re not crowded, the faded beauty of the season lingers. That column prompted an increase in play at Hickory, which didnt do me any good, but might have kept the snowbirds around town until after Thanksgiving.
No matter. I define golf not by the shots I hit, or the scores I make, but rather by the peace I acquire while playing it. Yesterday was special. Yesterday was a blessing and a gift. It made me grateful for having lived it.
On the 9th hole, a par-4 of maybe 390 yards, my drive lands dead center of the fairway, but still 180 yards short of the green. That’s where I conked a 7-wood dead right and 20 yards short of where I would be if I were a good player, which I am not. I bumped a wedge to the fringe and took 3 putts from about 60 feet. Miserable.
The walk wasn't, though. Not at all.
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