Coming back from Albion on Drake Road, I pass two golf courses: Cobblestone and the Kendallville Golf Club.
My parents were avid golfers and they bought me clubs and I even had lessons. I do not like golf, as the game is played – hit the ball, walk to the ball, hit it again, walk to it, hit it again . . . and on and on depending on how good you are.
I could stand for a long time at a driving range – hit, hit, hit, hit, hit. All that hitting would be called practice. I do practicing well. Years with a saxophone hanging around my neck and variations on scales would testify to it.
But to do it like golf would be like practicing a measure by playing a note, walking around and playing the second and so on, depending upon whether they are whole or half of 32nd notes. Of course, there is the possibility of a rest but the when and length are dictated.
This is a game where the fewer times you have to show skill, the better you score. I don’t have that type of an outlook. Let’s say I was somewhere on the fairway, heading for the green with an iron. Now, real golfers are like snipers. They steady themselves, they gauge, they steady, they wait for the right wind, they steady, they breathe a certain way, they steady and eventually they hit that one shot. If that shot is bad, they have to suck it up and bury their frustration and proceed to the next possible debacle.
I prefer another method; I want to approach the green with my six-gun a-shootin’ and my Winchester a-whirlin’. Yes, John Wayne style. I want to hit that green like a Marine on Iwo Jima and plant the hole flag where . . . well, never mind, but “hole” would probably fit in the description.
Obviously, I do not have the personality for this game I do not like. So I guess it works out in the end. Besides, how can you strive in a game where the goal is to be a sub-par player?
