In a newspaper article printed during my competitive golfing career, a sportswriter with the Orlando Sentinel Star gave me the nickname “Titanic Tingle.” The piece went on to say: “The North Carolina strongman generated a near gale with his air-beating practice swings. And his bold and sometimes gambling shots eventually cost him the lead.” By the last hole of that tournament I was in shambles. I was frustrated, exhausted, and just wanted to go home. I placed third, and immediately announced my retirement. I had more important things ahead of me, like first grade.
My attitude towards golf has not changed much since my days as a five-year-old playing in Pee Wee tournaments. That is to say, I consider golf to be like bluegrass music, something that’s relatively enjoyable for about twenty minutes, after which I want to jump off a cliff. It’s always the same. On the first tee I’m excited and optimistic. But by the fourth green I’m ready to launch my golf bag into the nearest pond and myself into the nearest bar, where I’ll drown my sorrows and swear off golf forever, knowing full well I will eventually crawl back with my tail between my legs.
For the first forty years of my life, the game was impossible to escape. My parents owned a golf course and I grew up washing carts and mowing greens. I could play golf anytime I wanted, but I rarely took advantage of the opportunity, which seemed to perplex the course’s members. “Would you rather your parents owned a bowling alley?” they would ask. The answer was often “yes.” At least a bowling alley would have a juke box, and be air-conditioned.
In my twenties I became the superintendent of my parents’ course, and by the time I was thirty, I was the general manager of the facility. For me, golf was a job, not a leisure activity. But it was a job I took seriously and at one point my handicap dropped down to a five. I considered getting my PGA card and becoming a teaching professional, which I thought might eventually lead to me getting my tour card and a shot at fame and fortune. I applied for PGA membership and swaggered up to the first tee for the Playability Test, two consecutive eighteen-hole rounds a player must complete in under a certain score. I hit my first drive out of bounds, and my second, and my third. I took a ten on the first hole, ending any reasonable hope of qualifying for membership. I shook my fist at the sky and the golf gods responded with a complacent smirk.
When I left the golf business at age forty, I stored my clubs and barely touched them for the next twelve years. But last month I signed up for a lesson at the Furman Golf Course, just to see if anything resembling a golf swing still lived somewhere deep inside me. A kind and patient PGA professional named Tim met me on the range and asked me to hit a few balls to show him my ability. “You’re a natural,” Tim said. “It won’t take you long to get your handicap down into single digits.” I appreciated the positivity, but I knew what the golf gods were doing. Tim’s words were like a late-night text from a toxic old flame: I miss you. Let’s try again. I’m different now, we can make it work. An hour later, I walked off the range, drove home, and gently placed my clubs in the corner of the garage, where they’ll remain untouched for months, or maybe years, until the itch becomes so irritating that I have no choice but to scratch it again.
