Golf

This morning I played for the first time in a year. At the beginning of last summer I had gotten it into my bonnet that I would learn how. I did a clinic at Chelsea Piers. The guy I was dating at the time and I made some trips to the Par 3 in Wainscott.

By late August, when I visited my Dad and stepmom in North Carolina, I was able to hold my own for 9 holes. Hold my own being a term, mind you, subject to much interpretation, but not make a complete stinking shame out of myself all the same.

Then a year went by when I got busy with writing and another boyfriend and an apartment purchase and a move and all of a sudden a year had gone by and I was in North Carolina once again and I realized that it had been one calendar year since I last played a round of golf.

Last night my Dad took me to the driving range before dinner so we could get a little practice in before this morning’s round. This was after an afternoon during which everyone else napped and I rode my bike and went to the beach. I was sapped. Balls were going here, there, and everywhere but not exactly where they were supposed to go. I had a bad feeling about our morning round.

But then I got a good night’s sleep. I had a piece of sourdough toast with Bing cherry jam. I realized that the worst case scenario for this golf game in reality was not bad at all.

I had after all originally taken up golf for occasions such as this: days with the family wherein I’d prefer to be playing a sport over having the same arguments that tend to surface, or rehashing the same themes. Because the one undeniable thing that everf family has is a history. This is neither bad nor good but really ultimately what it is and along with it there does tend to be some historic things that resurface.

So I took up golf. And this morning, while there were moments of frustration and more than a handful of bad shots, there were also four hours in the sun with my family where for the most part we laughed and got along well.

Hole in one.