Love to hate

Self-loathing on links

Drawing back the driver, I hesitated at the top of my backswing, then drove the clubhead through the dimpled white ball perched on a tee just off my left foot.

Ka-thwack! The ball soared high, coming to rest in the center of the fairway 260 yards distant.

I was darned near bursting with confidence when we pulled up in the golf cart and I looked at only 60 short yards remaining between me and the flag. No sand traps, water or other obstacles, just a nice, straight, pop-up wedge stood between me and penciling in surely no worse than a par 4 on the card.

"Keep your head down, turn your hips, accelerate through the ball," thoughts bounced through my pea-brain like a pinball as I drew back and swung again. Catching the ball on the upswing rather than at the bottom, the club's face clipped the center and sent it racing across the green and a dozen yards beyond. "What tha! How can anyone do something so stupid? What a waste of a good drive!"

It's here that I finally get around to the point of today's sad story.

Those across Arkansas who've not endured the agonies of self-loathing obviously never have played the game of golf with its tops, shanks, yips and tortuous mis-hits. It's a game where swear words, clubs thrown in disgust and other signs of intense unhappiness with one's failings are anything but unusual.

We who live with self-loathing know all too well the tip-top highs that comes with eagles and birdies and lowest lows of the dreaded double bogeys (and worse). There's something damaging to self-esteem in the realization that the double bogey we just made will require two rare birdies just to climb back to even par from the hole we've dug. That knowledge weighs heavy on the shoulders of any golfer foolish enough to experience hope for very long.

When I hit a golf shot squarely, also known as dead solid perfect, it raises unrealistic expectations that I surely can repeat that experience with the next shot. Bahaha! Since none of us attains perfection in any sense, such deluded reasoning does nothing but set me up for the next wave of loathing.

It's not unusual for anyone who plays this game to feel the exhilaration of parring three holes in a row followed by the devastation of a triple bogey after knocking the ball out of bounds. The ever-fluctuating emotions also can work the other way. For instance, I watched fellow golfer John McPhee of Harrison storm away roundly chastising himself with shoulders slumped after slicing his tee shot into a tree the other day only to be rejoicing four minutes later when he knocked his ball into the hole from off the green.

Wait a minute. Isn't there a psychological diagnosis for those who rapidly shift back and forth between the highest highs and the lowest lows?

Self-loathing especially consumes me when putting for a birdie from eight feet but somehow roll my ball six feet past the cup then miss the hole coming back. How, I wonder, my face turned to the heavens in contorted distress, can a person putting for a birdie from eight feet wind up recording a bogey (or even worse)? Just how terrible can I possibly be? Why do I, a full-growed-up man no longer fond of carnival rides, continue to board this Tilt-A-Whirl and subject myself to the frustrating agony of failures?

Harrison golf professional Neal Corral offered an eight-word explanation. "Golf is a game we love to hate."

The late, revered Los Angeles Times sportswriter Jim Murray put it this way: "Golf is not a game, it's bondage. It was obviously devised by a man torn with guilt, eager to atone for his sins."

Golfing buddy Jim Strain of Harrison, a man who survived all form of military regimen throughout his seven-plus decades, pondered momentarily when I asked how he felt about his self-loathing on the golf course. "Well," he finally said, looking up, "I suppose it's better than self-flagellation."

Ed Fields, another avid golfer in his 70s, relived his latest round by saying, "nothing caused more self-loathing than my first missed tee shot unless maybe it was my second tee shot."

Many offer spiritual appeals when unable to keep their heads down or rush their backswings. Dorm Saylors, a retired coach and athletic director, has played golf for decades. He understands well the inevitability of sustained self-loathing along the fairways and greens. "All I hold in my hand out there is a club and a prayer," he explained. "And I can never get any help with my prayer."

The late, great golfer Bobby Jones wisely best summarized it by reminding that, "Golf is a game that is played on a 5-inch course--the distance between your ears."

Want to help?

Those wanting to contribute to the volunteer Mennonite Search and Rescue team I wrote about recently can do so at: MDS-SAR Team, 87 Alder Lane, Green Forest, Ark., 72638.

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Mike Masterson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].

Editorial on 05/08/2016

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