THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, July 2, 1996 TAG: 9607020407
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Tom Robinson
LENGTH: 63 lines
Golf knows.
Golf knows I have not played a round of it in 14 years. Golf knows I once played sparingly but never owned clubs. Golf knows that, in my heart, I really want nothing to do with it.
Yet golf knows how close it is to wrapping me up like a shaft around a fairway pine.
I can talk golf - bunker, mulligan, three-putt, !*&(NU) !!. I can watch golf on TV - ``That's a terrific golf shot, Rossi.'' I can understand golf - all except for that weird plus-scoring system they use sometimes. That, I don't get.
Golf knows its lure. I know its lore - Byron Nelson's 11-tournament winning streak, Ben Hogan, Bobby Jones, Arnie, Mex, the Bear. A friend has played the Royal and Ancient. I've seen his pictures.
Golf knows it's a sensuous beast, make no mistake: A crystal blue morning; a lush, emerald landscape, dew-dappled grass; bursting sunshine over the first tee; a mountain or ocean in the distance; the God-given right to wear parakeet-yellow pants sans belt or ridicule; the fraternal haze of the 19th hole.
Golf knows I don't know if I would play lefthanded or righthanded, or maybe hit righty and putt lefty. Golf knows I spend entirely too much time thinking about this for someone who does not play.
Golf knows it has been tweaked by no less a philosopher than Mark Twain, who called it a good walk spoiled. Golf smiled, and built four more courses in Hannibal, Mo.
Golf knows every few months I turn up at a driving range and flail at a bucket. Golf knows the tingle I get from the occasional low, straight 200-yarder. Golf knows that last time out, I grabbed a couple irons and chipped a few. Just because you never know.
Ah, but golf knows. Golf knows I ate up the two-page layout on local courses that ran in this sports section Saturday. Golf knows I then pictured myself in that picture of No. 3 at Williamsburg's Stonehouse course.
Golf, I know, is rubbing its hands together right now, eyes wide, cackling at that image. Because golf knows I fear it.
It opens its arms, I shrink away. Golf knows it is a cruel mistress. I have a friend who was photographed chucking his bag of clubs off a bridge, punctuating his unconditional surrender. I know others who have chucked the game for months, determining that it was golf or their stomachs.
Their ulcers quiet, they have returned. Then quit again. And on and on.
Golf knows it must give little back, if anything. Golf knows a well-struck shot now and then is enough to feed the hungry. ``More gruel,'' they cry, and between slurps punch redial for a Saturday slot.
Golf knows I do not have the time, money or energy to invest so much for such a meager dividend. Golf knows that every time it creeps near, I see the things I could do in those four or five hours; stain the deck, clean the garage, teach my kids a second language.
Golf knows I discuss all this sometimes with my wife. I address it tentatively, realizing that somewhere inside, against all reason, lives an inexplicable pull to play.
Golf knows it lingers in the other room, floats amid the duct work, jangles neurological firings in the brain. Golf knows that, personally, this leaves me at a loss. So I ask my wife.
``Why do I still want to play golf?'' I say.
``God knows,'' she says, and nothing more. by CNB