An absolute cracker of a drive danced through the raindrops, a Callaway on track for an all-too-rare meeting with the center of the fairway.
And there it sat, untouched, for roughly 75 minutes.
I’d like to tell you that shot was the start of a gallant comeback – the kind of shot that kickstarted a round after a double-triple-bogey-double start and got me back on the par train. Instead, I spent last Saturday shooting my worst round of the year so far, which is saying something for a guy whose handicap generously lands between 20-25 depending on the day.
Five years ago, I would’ve bailed on that round. Because immediately after the tee shot, my foursome raced toward the clubhouse, pedal to the floor, imploring this hunk of electric, metal, rubber and plastic to bust through its governor and hit 20 miles per hour. The light sprinkle turned into a deluge.
But those were the before times – before I decided to take this hobby seriously enough to actually make the effort to, you know, practice. I’ve since graduated to something far more identifiable than the weekend warrior – the absolute golf sicko. A sporting pervert of a sort in a collared shirt and quarter zip.
While two of our erstwhile group bailed ten minutes into our delay – they had the audacity to have things to do other than play golf – my buddy and I waited. We dumped the water out of our shoes, wrung ourselves out as best we could and immediately started talking about soft, receptive greens.
The folks sitting dry in their homes, occupying themselves with far more logical pursuits during a thunderstorm? Those were the suckers.
There were no questions about what we’d be doing, no discussion of heading to the cars and living to play another day. The golf bug had long ago bit my pal as much as it had me, and dammit, we weren’t bailing on the prospect of a Saturday spent on the course, which we viewed as superior to any other method of spending a Saturday that didn’t involve our better halves.
We weren’t alone in our quest to wait out the elements, hellbent on hitting 18 cups, soggy socks be damned. Two groups of friends or coworkers or relatives or whatever other collection of middle-aged men this happened to be ended up right behind us on the tee sheet, about 60 of them in all. Many hadn’t even teed off yet. And despite that, here we were, huddled together in a crowded cart barn, all of us dreaming of sticking our next shot five feet from the pin.
And that’s the beauty of this game. On a rough-around-the-edges but wildly entertaining public track, we stood united in the idea that, yes, this is probably absurd, but no, we don’t care. Chasing a little white ball around a large green field was our joy, our therapy, our outlet for the next 4-5 hours, and nobody else was going to judge us for it. We were, weirdly, in this together.
Because we knew we had the better of it. The folks sitting dry in their homes, occupying themselves with far more logical pursuits during a thunderstorm? Those were the suckers.
They’ll never understand the repeated joy found in the anticipation of the next shot. If you’re anything like me, it’ll probably be the same chunk, top, slice or pull you’ve hit a billion times before. But maybe, just maybe, it’ll be the one that keeps you coming back – like a drive ripped center cut, waiting like a sentry in the middle of the fairway for its shot at glory.
Those who don’t get it will never understand why – why we put up with wind, rain, heat and all manner of nonsense just to shoot 90+.
Those of us who do? Don’t forget to get your clothes out of the dryer. The next round awaits.
Regular Golf Club 
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