The Last Nine Holes

Ten years ago I gave up golf for the fifth and last time.

Saturday night at a Hawaiian luau -- if such an event can be defined by a patchwork of printed shirts and skirts, pastel-shaded paper necklaces, and wicked mai-tais along with North Carolina barbecue -- a casual conversation brought to mind the circumstances of that final renunciation, most painfully when the person I was talking to, a bit player in this melodrama, righteously rebuked me with the rhetorical exclamation: "And just where is my five-iron?"

My struggles with golf began at an early age -- ten, eleven, twelve -- when I took it up as a sport of last resort. You see, if you weren't big or strong or fast enough to play football, agile or quick enough to play basketball, and lacked the hand-eye coordination to hit a baseball, (Soccer and tennis were irrelevant back in those days.) golf seemed the perfect recourse: it was respectable and sociable; you didn't have to run, jump, or hit a moving object; and it had one tremendous advantage for a bookish kid burdened with athletic insecurities: you could practice it alone.

I quickly learned that, much to my dismay, even though the ball was sitting motionless, sometimes propped on a tee, I still couldn't hit it very well, neither far nor straight, rarely breaking 100 -- unless I cheated -- in spite of hacking around on one of the shortest -- only 6600 yards -- and easiest scoring courses in America, Oakwood Country Club. That was fairly acceptable if you were a teenager and playing in a foursome with other athletically-challenged fellows. But after graduating from the academic world and moving into a more mature business and social environment, I suddenly discovered where all the ex-football, basketball, and baseball jocks, and their physical prowess, had migrated: to the golf course. And they could hit the ball 250 yards, reach the green with their second shot, and record scores as unfamiliar to me as the fairway: par.

Lacking the skill of those low and medium handicappers and discouraged by the fact that my golf game consistently produced one decent shot followed by two wretched ones, I laid aside my clubs, permanently, I thought, and adopted an activity less frustrating, rarely competitive, and strictly solitary: running.

I actually like the game of golf. Every time I pass by a golf course, I steal a wistful glance at the placid beauty of the undulating fairways, treacherously seductive sand traps, rippled lakes, and perfectly groomed putting surfaces, all dotted with players in various stages of their game or merrily steering their carts towards their next shot, all the while admiring their passion, proficiency, and perseverance.

Two of the most enjoyable days of my life were spent at professional golf tournaments: the final round of 1999 U.S. Open at Pinehurst, N.C., where my son and I marveled at the controlled power of the game's demigods, watched John Daly post a twelve on a hole, and heard (but couldn't see) Payne Stewart sink an eight-foot putt on the final hole to claim the championship; and the first round of the 2006 Masters, where my mother -- an avid golfer for over 50 years -- and I traversed the rolling hills and lush fairways of this signature golf course and stood ten feet from Tiger Woods as he hit a blind shot into the creek on the perilous par five fifteenth hole.

After initially quitting golf some thirty-five years ago, I can recall picking up some clubs only three times before my last nine holes: during my first honeymoon at the Castle Harbour Resort in Bermuda, where my wife and I were situated so close to the lovely course, part of which overlooked the ocean, that we couldn't resist giving it a futile try; at least once (but no more than once) on our family's annual June trek to Myrtle Beach, where our host, the Spring Air Bedding Company, sponsors a one-day golf tournament and somehow enticed me to participate, much to my regret and to the chagrin of my playing partners, whose round took half again as long to complete as is customary; and a thankfully brief six-hole experiment at Bald Head Island, where the friend we were traveling with insisted I share his clubs since the back door of our condo opened directly onto the third hole, blithely ignorant of how much he was putting those clubs at risk.

When my wife and I returned to Bald Head Island ten years ago for a week-long vacation with three of our children, a round of golf appeared on my radar screen. Bald Head Island is a delightful idyllic resort (or at least it was then), with wide, sandy, almost deserted beaches, a picturesque harbor sheltering a few quaint shops, miles of golf cart paths (no automobiles allowed) and nature trails, and a stately country club. But it is accessible only by ferry, and once one has explored the island's lighthouse, patronized the local grocery store, and dined at Eb and Flo's, there is little else to do, other than consume more books, which I can do voraciously. Realizing that even I might overdose on the printed word, I resolved that I would devote one day to golfing with my fifteen-year-old son Matthew, in preparation for which I purchased a set of used clubs from Play It Again Sports and borrowed a set from a friend, whom you have already met in the second paragraph of this narrative.

Since Matthew had never played before and I wasn't much further along, I decided we should both take a lesson. Our blond, tanned, thirty-something instructor was patient and accommodating as he attempted to impart the basic skills we would need to navigate the golf course: how to stand, grip the club, and swing. He suggested that I adjust my shoulder position, which I did, resulting in a totally uncomfortable follow-through.

It was a typical August day at Bald Head Island: a sweltering 95 degrees with 100% humidity and a heat index of about 107. After ninety minutes of watching practice balls dribble harmlessly off the tee or spray in every direction but straight -- and concluding that he couldn't fit two square pegs in round holes -- our instructor was not sanguine about our prospects. And he was brutally honest. "It's mighty hot out there, guys. Are you sure you want to play?" he said. Matthew and I, equally stubborn, never hesitated. "We made it this far," I replied. "Of course we do." And off we marched -- to Purgatory.

My memory and sanity will not permit me to replay that round of golf hole-by-hole. Suffice it to say that, after the first, it became readily apparent that we were facing some severe obstacles: we weren't very good; it was extremely hot; and the course, having been carved out of a swamp, was cursed with a multitude of water hazards.

When you don't hit the ball very far, you have to swing the club more often, which generates more perspiration, which makes it harder to grip the club properly, which further reduces your distance. When you don't hit the ball straight, you spend a lot of time and energy looking for it, which generates even more perspiration and tires you out, which makes it harder to swing the club.

To make matters worse, it seemed that every hole featured a creek running through the fairway or a lake adjacent to it, and we were finding those oases with relentless frequency. On one hole we ventured close to the water to retrieve an errant ball, only to beat a hasty retreat when a snake slithered ashore. We were losing balls at a pace too rapid for me to calculate; I only knew how many we had started with: twenty-four.

After we had bravely battled the elements and our own ineptitude for close to two hours, the ultimate mortification occurred around the sixth or seventh hole, when I flailed mightily at the ball, only to have the five-iron I was holding slip from my grasp and fly like a wounded bird straight for the nearest lake, where it disappeared in a muffled splash. Already intimidated by a snake sighting and having heard whispers of alligators prowling the neighborhood, we decided to let it lie.

We had embarked with every intention of playing a full complement of eighteen holes, but as we trudged up the ninth fairway, I was patently exhausted. "Let's call it a day, Matt," I implored. Matt looked at me with surprising eagerness and a glimmer of hope in his expression. "But Dad," he said innocently, "maybe the other nine holes will be easier." "They might be," I replied, "but we are out of golf balls."

And so we were. We had played nine holes (well eighteen, if you count the two of us), and lost twenty-four golf balls and one five-iron -- a dubious record surely unequaled in the annals of golf, and one that I do not care to challenge at any future date. Therefore my rusting golf clubs now lie in storage, perpetually dormant, while my enjoyment of this gentleman's game is relegated to spectating and cocktail conversation, during which I often amuse my listeners with the rather pathetic tale of a hot summer day on Bald Head Island when I played my last nine holes.