Nurse the Hate: Ruminations on Golf

Despite having almost no interest in professional golf, I once again am strangely drawn to the Masters Tournament this weekend.  I think it has something to do with how winter grimly hangs on in this climate.  Seeing even televised green grass expanses, flowers, and the sound of songbirds chirping is comforting.  The sound of the telecast is like a warm blanket.  Hushed reverential tones from the announcers at a measured pace over the music of the birds.  There is an implied seriousness in each small event.  The golfers stride like kings as tournament staff clears their path.  The entire thing is ridiculous, pompous and wonderful.

My parents used to watch golf on TV on Sundays.  I have no clue as to why they did as neither one of them golfed or appeared to have even the slightest interest in taking up the game.  This was in spite of us living 125 feet from the 11^th hole of a golf course.  My friends and I used sneak on at dusk and chip from the sand traps.  As a result, I was a 12 year old with a wicked short game that had never once tried a tee shot.  This comes in handy once a decade when I am required to take part in a scramble.  There are looks of great surprise when I hop out of a golf cart in Chuck Taylors and can drop a ball within a foot of the hole from a sand trap.  This is soon forgotten when I majestically slice tee shot after tee shot into any poor sap’s homes that live near the course.  This results in my never being asked to participate in any further golf from that group, which is not only fine by me, I prefer it.  It’s a tribe of which I am not a member.

Suburban middle aged dudes absolutely love golf.  They are as enthusiastic about golf as I am about obscure indie bands and artisan wines.  They like to gather in groups at golf club grill rooms and watch the tournament while drinking light beers.  It is a fraternity.  I like how when they talk amongst themselves about the golfers they use their first names as if they are all in that Brotherhood of the Links.  “Yeah, Rory had some trouble on 14.”  You don't say Sean, you don't say...  

I recall when I had a job in college as security for the Muirfield PGA Tournament and was stationed on Hole 16.  A professional golfer would be trying to recover from some errant shot and hope to knock it out of some trees onto the green.  A hundred suburban dudes would encircle the player as he prepared his shot.  Like kids taking baseball mitts to a MLB game, they would all be wearing their golf spikes and special golf shirts.  Inevitably one would lean in to the other as the pro eyed up his shot and then say to his friend “I had almost the exact same shot last weekend.”.  This would be true if not for the fact you weren’t circled by 97 people and $600,000 was on the line.  Other than that, it was exactly the same. 

I worked that tournament for three years as it paid pretty well.  I enjoyed watching the club members doing menial tasks for the tournament with a look of steadfast determination and seriousness.  For 51 weeks a year, the plump man in the golf cart was a powerful attorney.  For one week a year he drove that cart around taking ice to water stations for the players he watched on TV every weekend, and that week was the highlight of his calender year.  It was endearing and sad at the same time.  

I don’t care who wins the Masters.  I am only peripherally aware of a few players beyond Tiger Woods.  I will put it on the TV, turn the sound down, and let the whisper of Spring fall over me.  I want to see the gorgeously framed TV shots of fresh bloom by gurgling creeks.  I want to hear the hushed tones of the announcers as they try to levy the drama unfolding of strangers golfing.  In an unpredictable world filled with sadness and disappointments, the sound of that tournament is an anchor of predictability.  Who wins or loses is immaterial.  I am just glad that it is there as it always has been.