THE ADDICTION, A personal narrative

            I was about eight years old, when golf first showed itself to me. Sitting in my uncle’s living room, was a glimpse of my future. My uncle had a shaved new haircut and held a freshly opened beer with condensation dripping onto his attire for the get together. He referred to himself as “the coolest uncle ever.” Extremely humorous and almost cocky, he always made me laugh.

 He was reclined in a leather chair parallel from the television, next to my father and grandfather on the sofa, as I leaned on the back of his recliner. “Who is that?” I asked my uncle as we were observing “The Master’s,” on his nicely placed fifty inch TV. With all the excitement and cousins running around, it was amazing to find myself in front of a screen.

                “That’s Tiger Woods, and he’s going to win,” he said quite confidently. From what I’ve heard from my grandpa and father, my uncle’s quite a competitive golfer

                “Why, is he the best?” I stared at the screen as Tiger crushes a ball down the fairway. The fans were screaming, and looking very excited. This didn’t make sense, he wasn’t in first.

                “I’ve never seen anyone better; he’s the best of the best. And he can’t stop winning.” From the moment I saw him I could tell there was something special about this golfer. Woods was tall, strong, confident and a soon to be legend. At this point in my life golf was golf, definitely not a sport. The words boredom, old, and being quiet, came to mind. But Tiger awards a new meaning to these words. Golf became athletic, youthful, and loud.

                If you haven’t heard of Tiger Woods, then you probably don’t live on this planet. Everyone knows who Tiger is, even if you don’t play golf. He has something about him that says winner. If you just turned on a golf tournament and saw all the names, you would recognize Tiger Woods.

                One could say that golf didn’t change me, but Tiger did.

                In the eighth grade, those cleanly cut greens began to lure me in. Summer school is a time for fun, if you’re between the grades of fifth and eighth. Hot as usual, summer was meant for swimming, friends, and playing football. Not for golf, what’s golf? My lovely mother signed me into the darn class of “learning golf.” Sent with an old bag, and a set of hand-me-down clubs, probably made in the early nineteenth century, I was ready.

 Every day we’d get a ride up to the local golf course. It was defiantly not pebble beach. Courses like Pebble Beach, deserve respect when you play on them, this course didn’t come with much. It was still a golf course, and even though respect for the course wasn’t enforced, we did our best to keep it clean.

 It wasn’t too bad; I had a few friends in the class. But they were much more skilled then I. I spent my time hacking at balls, on the range, usually getting more turf then then ball. It would make me incredibly frustrated and tired. The urge of throwing things and screaming came upon me, but this was a golf course. As I struggled, the few friends I had, were allowed to go play on the course. The course taunted and called to me. I’d get my chance…someday.

I continued to work hard and struggle with golf. The next year I signed myself up this time, for a class taught by the course pro. He was a very bright man, with an attitude that complimented it.  I had a few close friends in his program, so I decided to give it a shot. I wasn’t what you would call the “best” player in the group. “I’m not very good,” I told the pro.

“Ah, you’ll be fine, I’ll help you out.” Good, because I sure needed the help. Our practice didn’t start off so great. I couldn’t manage to quite hit the ball, and there was always a little snicker behind me as I did so. I was brutal at almost every aspect in golf, except putting. I had the smoothest stroke, and I was envied by everyone. But to those guys putting was the least important.

 After the first day he could tell that I was significantly less skilled than the others. “Tomorrow morning come in a half an hour early, we’re going to look at a few things.” This told me one thing, I suck at golf. The next morning I started my private lesson. He had me stop hacking at balls and just slow down. He made little tweaks here and there to my swing as we went, and as the weeks went by I felt like a different player. My coach noticed the progress,” You could be a real player, if you keep at it kid.” My progress went unnoticed by the other children.

Soon came the day of the tournament. The night before I couldn’t sleep, my mind was racing. I kept reciting my swing in my pajamas until I was content with my own shadow. As morning came I was ready for a challenge. I headed to the course with a new hat, a clean polo shirt, and my best looking shorts. As soon as I arrived I spent my time on the putting green, perfecting my stroke as best I could. Pink, a ball drops into the cup,” There we go.” I speak quietly to myself under my breath. Another ball drops into the cup, another, and another, until I’m content with the outcome.

I walk gingerly off the spongy surface to lug my bag over to my next destination. I whip out one of my ancient irons to launch a few balls down the range. Staying focused and taking my time, the ball bounces off the face off the club with a newly found purpose. What is this feeling?  Finally, it seems that I’ve struck the ball in the correct manner. I take a few more tries, reenacting my previous shot. This feeling is addictive! I can sense today might be a little more exciting than the others.

“Everyone ready?” I snagged my tools and headed up the winding path to the first tee box. It was a par five, the hardest hole on the course. Waiting for me was the instructor and the tournament rules. Everything is drowned out until I hear, “hey son…would you like to hit first?”

I pull out my highly unpredictable driver and stick a ball and tee in the spongy grass. Taking a few practice swings my hands start to sweat, my mind is sprinting through all that I’ve been taught. I focus on one thing, that addictive spot, the sweet spot. I’m Tiger Woods, I’m going to crush this. “Here we go…” I sweep the club back, up, back down, and… Boom, sweet spot.

“Nice hit, Beautiful!” I can’t stop grinning as that ball flies off the tee. I watch it until it disappears. I keep my head down as we hobble, with our bags, up to the place of my ball. I’m careful to keep my head down, and not to lose concentration. The other two children hit there balls down towards the hole. One of them shanks there’s into the nearest tree, while the other is holding back a grin.

 When we approach my ball I discover it is placed in the most perfect spot. It sat on the top of the slope with a clear shot to the green. I knew if I didn’t put this close then it would be a wasted chance, at a head start. Like pulling a sword from its scabbard, my seven iron is prepared for the task. Taking my traditional pre-swings my mind stays relaxed and calm. But I know in the back of my mind that I can’t mess this up. I pull back the club and come back through with a meaning. Thud. The face of the club smashes its power directly into the turf. That little white ball flies like it has a broken wing, and only makes it half of its intended distance.

Anger sets in as I realize I have repeated my old ways. My cheeks turn a red hue. I cover my eyes with my hat, throw my sword back into its scabbard, and lug the bag back onto my shoulder. My mind scans all that could have gone wrong. It comes up without an answer. After my previous shot the other two children were looking a little amazed. As I they expected more from the guy with the perfect drive.

When we reach the destination of our balls, the boy who had struck his ball near the large pine tree, shot first. He wore an old striped polo, of the colors purple and black. He didn’t have the look of a golfer, and certainly didn’t respect the course like one. His next shot was chucked out into the fairway, similar to the way mine was.

I jogged over to find my ball. I was the next up hit. It was laying on the edge of the fairway. “You’re about a hundred and twenty-seven yards out.” The boy, who had out shot me at our last spot, was peering through an eyeglass of some sort. His name was Steven; I had never spoken to him before. Everyone knew he was arguably the best player in the class. I believed them, judging by his last shot, he’ll for sure make a birdie.

From where I was standing I’d be lucky to have a chance at bogey. A branch, from a small oak tree, hung just in front of where my ball was to fly. If I wanted a chance at the green I would have to fly the ball low under the branch. I would also have to land it short of the green so it would have time to slow down.  Without thinking I go for it. “Whatever happens…happens,” I say to myself. The ball flies off the turf, going just underneath the branch. The branch obstructs my eyesight. I can’t see, I let out a sigh.

“Oh my…Dude!” Steven screams from my left. “Did I really just see that?” He yanks me out from under the tree. “Look,” he says.

“What? Where’s my ball, did you see where it went?” Right now I’m really hoping I didn’t lose my ball. “Dude it was a Titleist…Please tell me you know where it is.”

He was standing there with the dumbest grin on his face. “I know where it is.” Wow this guy is turning out to be kind of a prick. I really didn’t think he would be the one to make fun of someone’s ball being lost forever.

Just then I noticed someone on the green. It was the boy with the black and purple shirt. He had gone unnoticed as I was too concerned about my overpriced ball being lost. “Hey…what is he…?” I asked Steven. We both stared at him. Steven still had a grin from ear to ear. The boy bent over and picked a white ball from the cup.

“What’d you guys each hit?” He held the ball up for us both to see. I couldn’t quite make out the logo.

“Slazenger,” Steven yelled back. “What is it?”

“It’s a Titleist,” The boy said. He looked at it curiously.

“Oh…my.” I sprinted down to the cup to find my little white golf ball being held very gingerly between the hands of the boy, whose name I didn’t even know. Now I knew why Steven had the dumbest look on his face. Now I had it too. He came walking down towards the green lugging his and my golf clubs. As he approached my smile faded as I gave him a shot to the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me it went in?” I glared at him.

“Because…that was amazing.

That day marked a day of a new beginning. It started the addiction of golf.