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Why don’t I play golf again?

March 15, 2014

When I played golf i had the card, discount membership at the Delmonte golf Course, and played regular rounds at a Par-3 course to work on my short game; in fact, I usually dropped tons of balls and worked on pitches and chips until some caught up to me. OI read golf books, hit balls on the range, and lowered my handicap below 9. I was shooting regularly in the low eighties, on the cusp of consistently breaking 80. Then a couple things happened. I saw a sand bar forming at Cowells again and decided I wanted to get back into surfing. Then I also lost my job. And my Dad died–we always played in a member-guest tournament at his club back East. He was a terrible golfer, buyt a good putter, and oddly, he was more enjoyable to play against than with, and he was a better partner with his buddies than with me. Odd. Oh, then I got testicular cancer again.

Golf always costs money. And a round takes time. Right now, struggling along, and especially after cancer because I had nerve damage from chemo so it was difficult for me to walk and keep my balance–even my grip was slightly affected. I went back in the water more because it took less time and it was free. I have played a couple rounds in the last two years, and nothing seems connected outside of the exercise and talking to friends. That spell I need to unify the consciousness into the game–well, that’s not there. And I can’t justify the time. Or spending the money. So I go and putt once in awhile.

I guess there’s another calling. But not playing every year with my Dad has taken the most out of it. Maybe that’s why I wrote Blind Guys Break 80.

I look at the clubs and the balls and wonder what bolt of lightning will it take to bring us back together again. I drive by courses and see the fairways, and I don’t see it as anything more than a retreat. And that’s wrong, I guess. But it’s the difference between a kiss on the cheek and a tongue in the mouth.

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