Why I Play
Golf has been described many different ways, perhaps most memorably by Mark
Twain as “a good walk spoiled.” I understand that sentiment but like to think I can
transcend it from time to time. For instance, there was the time I launched a 5 iron
from the rough on number 15 at my local and it came to rest inches away from the
cup for a tap-in birdie. But generally, my game can best be described as one that
vacillates between the good, the bad, and the ugly. I can live with that.
But I while I strive to improve, I don’t really care if I become a scratch player. I have
goals; I admit that. Every year, I keep a ringer scorecard: the lowest score on each
hole over the course of that year. Last year, I managed a 61, pretty good for someone
with an uneven game and a 19 handicap. I would be happy if each round I played
was south of 90, but I’m not quite there yet. But that’s not really the point. It’s not
the quantitative analysis that keeps me coming back for another round. No; it’s the
qualitative aspect of the game that, like the Supremes, keeps me hanging on.
I play most of my golf at Chester River Yacht and Country Club, a country club over
on Maryland’s Eastern Shore that is longer on country than it is on club. It’s a
relaxed place: there are no tee times and very rarely do we ever wait on other
players in front of us. In fact, very rarely do we even see other players anywhere on
the course. Four-hour rounds are common; often a friend and I can get around in
under three. Even more importantly, the place is beautiful: herons stalk the ponds,
eagles or ospreys soar overhead, and snapping turtles have been known to lay their
eggs in the sand traps around number 12. At dawn or dusk, the course is a
splendidly silent place, lit from within by a thousand glowing candles, an outdoor
cathedral that beckons the pilgrim and recharges his weary soul.
But even that is not why I play. I play for friendship. There is regular gaggle of
golfers I play with on Saturdays at noon. We’re of roughly even ability, even
temperament, and almost even intellect. (I say ‘almost’ because one of us has a
couple of Pulitzers in his bag.) There is plenty of good fellowship on the course and
in the bar. We applaud good shots and say little about bad ones; if any money
changes hands, it is very little and immediately disbursed on drink by the winner.
Bitterness never rears its ugly head; disappointment never lingers long.
I have given each my pals a nickname which I write down on our common scorecard
to preserve anonymity and to keep things light. There is Eggman, a house painter so
named because he is convinced that the egg proceeded the chicken; The Knife
because his surname is Mack; Jim goes by Dan because his surname sounds like that
funk band of the 90s, Steely Dan. “Crumpets” lives part of the year in London. Then
there is Hoondog, Clark, Letters, and Rub; the last relates to the fact that the bearer
once took a course in Swedish massage. I am called Steve because on occasion I hit
low stingers that fly like bullets that reminded the Eggman of an old Steve McQueen
movie. (NB: one cannot give one’s self a nickname; it must be bestowed by another,
like a knighthood.)
We are friends on and off the course. Although I am relatively new to the group, we
have caddied for each other through middle age and on toward retirement. In fact,
Crumpets just crossed that threshold; I expect his handicap will be going down this
summer.
So that’s why I play: to be part of a couple of foursomes moving companionably
along the fairways of life, avoiding the hazards whenever possible and occasionally
tapping in for birdie.
Fore!
Jamie Kirkpatrick
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