On the occasion of the Carpenter’s recent birthday, I decided to endure a round of golf with three of my favorite men: my spouse, my son and my dad, all of whom can actually golf, unlike myself.
I should be genetically predisposed to golf.
Both my parents are avid golfers. My mother is a meticulous golfer with a beautiful, straight shot from the tee and the patience to play with poise at all times. She even dresses the part.
My father has the power to whack the golf ball with force, making it look easier than it is. Golf is not his sport; it is his religion. While I would never accuse him of being a patient man, he will focus on putting like it’s the final round of The Masters tournament and his retired life depends on it (and you think I’m weird?).
Somehow, I missed the link (get it?) of the golf chromosome, so I did the next best thing; I married someone who could play.
Better still, the Carpenter bears a rather remarkable likeness to Canadian golf champion Mike Weir. And just to up the ante, I gave birth to the prodigal mini-Carpenter, who at the age of 11 is already showing promise of being a golfer in his own right. Brownie points for me. Yet I still cannot golf.
By now I am sure you know that I don’t give up easily, so I coordinated nine holes of golf for the Carpenter’s birthday. I figured I’d maybe hit a few golf balls and just tag along; you know, go out, be one of the boys. After all, there is nothing a group of guys like better than a female tagging along at a sports event, am I right? Cough.
My mother, who declined to participate, ensured I looked the part in a coordinated pink (Lord, help me) plaid skort and polo shirt ensemble. She even lent me her fancy graphite clubs. I looked the part, but playing it was a whole new ball game.
Off we went, the big boys driving the ball well from the tees and me chipping hardily away. Sure, I spent some time lurking in the forest and donated a golf ball to the frog pond, and endured remarks from my son like, “What did the grass ever do to you?” when my divot went further than the ball. I wonder where he gets his sarcasm?
The morning went on and my swing improved. I actually made a few shots that were headed straight in the direction I actually intended them to go. Who knew? Must have been the skort.
The point is I didn’t totally suck at this game. I am not sure who was more surprised.
Around the fourth tee it struck me that golf is a great metaphor for life. That tiny white ball keeps you humble to life’s challenges, reminding you that the whole journey is really about you, whatever obstacles you face and how you choose to react to the situation. The game can change in a second, no matter how good you think you are. Sometimes you just need to get out in nature, walk in the grass and breathe.
In the end it’s about the journey, not the destination, since we all end up going down the same hole. Golf, like life, is best played with people you love. For this, I am on par and grateful.