I Can Do That

After watching the Honda Classic this past week as Rory McIlroy earned his title as number one in the world I couldn't help but think, golf is easy. As a golfer myself I was shocked as I said it, but watching those pros on TV make you believe it. I spent Thursday-Saturday watching in awe, being inspired that I could drive the ball that far and sink a 30 footer nonchalantly, until Sunday came. I found myself playing a practice round in Savannah Georgia at Savannah Quarters country club (beautiful course). I teed up on my first hole-which happened to be hole 14. And stretched got ready to hit a great shot, and then surprised myself when my ball was headed left for a sand trap instead of right down the middle of the fairway. I thought, wait a minute, Rory doesn't do this, then I realized that is why I am a college golfer and not on the LPGA myself. Talk about a reality check.

Yet I haven't learned. Golf tournament after golf tournament I watch and pros just make it look easy. Then I go out hit a few good shots on the range and wonder who they consistently never miss fairways, or greens(for the most part.)

To most golfers, golf is a pain. You love it, you hate it and it goes back and forth like that for the rest of your life. It is a nasty game to love, but impossible to walk away from. My dad sent me this poem once and I read it almost daily. I can't help but laugh to myself because the poem perfectly describes my feelings of the sport we call golf.

In my hand, I hold a ball, white and dimpled, and rather small. Oh how bland it does appear, this harmless looking little spehere. By its size I could not guess, of the awesome strength it does possess. But since I fell beneath its spell, I've wandered through the fires of hell. My life has not been quite the same, since I chose to play this stupid game. It rules my mind for hours on end, a fortune it has made me spend. It has made me curse and made me cry, and hate myself and want to die. It promises me a thing called par, if I hit it straight and far. To master such a tiny ball, should not be very hard at all. But my desires the ball refuses, and does exactly as it chooses. It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies, and disappears before my eyes. Often it will have a whim, to hit a tree or take a swim. With miles of grass on which to land, it finds a tiny patch of sand. Then has me offering up my soul, if only it would find the hole. It's made me whimper like a pup, and swear that I will give it up. And take a drink to ease my sorrow, but the ball knows... I'll be back tomorrow.