A Social Insecurity

                               

They say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome; first thing I thought of was golf. I remember playing golf at a level that nearly preceded sex and food. Range two to three times a week, hitting balls until the evening hid them thirty yards out. I practiced putting on my rug until Johnny Carson came on. I was often the first single out, playing alone in the early morning sun or not. I owned the first composite driver—Yonex, as I recall. Hit it on a rope nearly always. And then, as golfers do, watched a friend with a Titleist driver hit past mine; of course, I quickly bought one.  For years I tried to hit it, and from time to time it obeyed, but mostly it was an enigma without a Rosetta Stone. And so came my introduction to:

“Golf Greed”

Contagious as a cold and as serious as an addiction, it will debilitate you—and your wallet/purse. And there are so many sayings warning you about it:  “It’s not the arrow,” etc. My Yonex, my “guarantee of fairway,” sat proud and quiet in the garage, and I ignored it like the reflection of my handicap or the passing of the Balata Ball.  Still, my game was better than most and I had those rounds I could brag about over my Caesar salad.  

Career, retirement, expectations.

Surely if I thought about the game the way I used to, and if I accepted certain limitations (a man’s got to know his limitations), I would quickly catch up to where I was and surpass then, now.

No.

Retired seven years and my game resembles a piñata after the party. Every time I go into my bag for a club, I can see Medusa in there with green eyes flashing and saying, “No fucking way, Raggio.” And after seven years of rounds, I go out there (I think we all do) expecting, for no reason at all except hope, that we are going to have the round we imagine! We all do it. I know this to be true because we all show up. We have that hopeful grin that reflects that mantra all golfers on the first tee repeat under their hats: “This is the day!” It’s the same grin and hat we wore before the last round and the round before that and …

Why am I shooting my temperature? Is there some internal conspiracy? The grins are looking more and more like grimaces. Ground Hog Day sets in and we’re already looking past today’s score and filling it in with the same excuses and dismissals we did halfway through the last round.   

The affliction of the addiction is not fiction.  Pass the 805, please …