It's almost August, but I finally made it out to the golf course today for the first time this year. I played nine holes on my favorite public course—it's a slice of heaven, surrounded on three sides by farmland, with midsummer wildflower weeds in grand display: yarrow, thistle, daisy fleabane, and the beginnings of goldenrod, and whiff upon whiff of fresh country air. I even saw a bluebird. Despite golf being an icon of clubbishness, I consider it an ideal activity for the (ahem) pathologically introverted, and I prefer solitary play. While playing alone, I don't seek the company of headphones hooked to a portable music player; I prefer listening to the wind rustling through the trees and the birds chirping, interrupted only by the golfer's inner demon (or is it the inner vampire), singing "She ain't got that swing". (Thanks for noticing.) I'm a walking golfer, and nine holes of par 4's and 5's can really work up your appetite for a succulent shank of osso buco, or, on the lighter side, an open-face club sandwich. I haven't been a golfer for very long, but the influence of the great players can already be seen in my play, as I come ever closer to attaining the short game of Michelle Wie and the last-round-last-hole nerves and judgment of Phil Mickelson. I never keep score, because, well, I can't count that high, so instead I track my progress by the number of golf balls lost in a round. By all accounts, then, today was a grand success: one over for the day.
What a lovely, evocative post. Thanks.
Posted by: Patricia Tryon | July 27, 2004 at 05:54 PM
Thank *you* for the kind compliment!
Posted by: Chan S. | July 28, 2004 at 01:58 PM