“I hate this game, and I can’t wait to play again tomorrow.”
-PGA Tour Pro Jeff Sluman

I’m convinced golfers – good golfers – have a screw loose in their craniums. In fact, it’s probably a prerequisite to success. You have to be a little crazy to play a game that encompasses the extremes of fantasy and reality that golf offers.

The fantasy factor is almost comical at times. It doesn’t matter whether we are pros or hack amateurs. When we tee it up on number one, we’re all tied for the lead. In our minds, we are about to play an incredible round, peppered with birdies, masterful recovery shots, and genius putting. Par is just an arbitrary number established as a marker to calibrate mediocrity. We don’t plan on honoring par. No, today we are going for the glory, an under-par round that will make our opponents tremble as they reach deep in their pockets to pay monetary homage to our unique skills. It’s a wonderful feeling, living temporarily in this cocoon of unsubstantiated confidence as we wait our turn for the first shot of the day. In fact, the feeling is so wonderful and addictive it’s one of the primary reasons we even bothered to show up in the first place. Today is going to be our day.

That’s the fantasy. In short time, reality sets in and our bubble of golfing invincibility erodes faster than ice melts on a hot tin roof. Poof. With one swing that sends the ball in directions unintended, our comfortable mind-set is gone. We suddenly realize the perfect day we had anticipated is lost, and now its simply a matter of survival, where we go to war battling a slice of manicured real estate and hosts of demons lurking inside our thoughts.

I love to hate golf. It’s my mistress. It demands more time from me than I can offer and more money from me than common sense should allow. Still, I don’t care. Like a mistress extending her mesmerizing tentacles of entrapment, golf has me hopelessly hooked. I can’t escape even if I tried. It’s my drug of choice. I’ve walked off the 18th green following a terrible rounds where nothing went right and before I reach the clubhouse to post my score, lo and behold I’ve already analyzed the reasons for my collapse, hypothesized cures and corrections, and made mental notes to adjust my time availability the following week to range test these theories at the first possible opportunity. I can’t wait to play again, so self-assured am I in my thought processes that the next time I hit the ball, my shots will go straight, my thinking will be precise, and my scores will plummet low.

It’s easy to see I’m stuck on this fantasy-reality merry-go-round and I’m not getting off soon, at least not until I’m dead at the earliest. In fact, even death is not a sure fire escape for the golf fanatic. We are so deluded in our logic we are positive if heaven is really as nice a place as they say, there has to be golf courses up there. Has to be. In our world, we cannot fathom Heaven without golf. You might not be able to take your money with you after you die, but we golfers are sure hoping we are able to take our games. I’ve seen people buried with golf items and admittedly, have even participated in this highly unusual rite of passage. You just never know. It’s better to be prepared, I say.
If you are a golf addict, you have only two choices: go with the flow or go quit the game. Choice #2 has never been achieved by anyone who ever took the game serious so that option is out. It’s all about how the game is played. The object is simple. Hit the ball in the hole. Period. So there you stand, on a par 3, 157 yards from a round indentation in the ground and you try to do the impossible – hit it in the hole. Isn’t that what you are supposed to do? Isn’t that what you are supposed to be thinking? Isn’t that the whole point of the game, to hit the ball in the hole? Yes, that’s the fantasy factor at work. We are not going to hit the ball in the hole, and by the time the ball does kiss the paint inside the cup, we are more than likely going to be frustrated with how many times we had to stroke the sphere before it came to rest in the intended target. That’s the reality. And between those two extremes, the real game of golf is played. And that’s exactly where the charm of the game exists.

Most days I roll out of bed, reluctant to face the trials and tribulations of the day. On Sunday morning, I literally leap out of the sack, anxious and excited to get to the course and tee it up. It’s what we golfers do. It’s who we are. Eternal optimists. I jump out of bed because of the fantasy, the birdies, the eagles and even the improbable opportunity of shooting the magical hole-in-one. This just may be the day when it all comes together like a symphony, every club a musical instrument of sorts each playing the same notes with polished persuasion. We inhale the fantasy factor of golf because it is so intoxicating, but when we finally strike the ball, we exhale the reality of the game as we stare at the ball venturing off into the tall and uncut nether land.

Bad shots don’t really phase us, because we know the next shot we hit will be so crisp, so pure that people who observe it will oohh and ahhh in jealous recognition of our achievement. But it rarely happens. In fact, it almost never happens. From my experience, about the only time it does happen is when you are about to stash your clubs in the closet out of anger and frustration – and then it happens. Bang. The perfect shot at the perfect time. A tap-in birdie on a number one handicap hole. The pros couldn’t have played the hole any better. All of a sudden every bad shot you hit fades from memory and the good feelings return. That one perfect shot is a golfer’s opium that elevates your mood with a euphoria no pharmaceutical concoction could ever duplicate. Suddenly, you are in love with the game again and the world is wonderful. Enjoy it while it lasts, as it’s a fleeting feeling. Reality is just the next shot away.
It’s no wonder we love to hate this game. It’s because it takes us on one helluva thrill ride each week. Like zipping around on a roller coaster, there are times we have to hold on to the game for dear life just to make it to the end of the round, and there are times we got it going so good we throw our hands up in the air in wild abandon of how darn good it feels when things go right.

I’m not sure if the late Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead played golf, but I could see him walking off the 18th green and when questioned how it went, he answered “What a strange trip its been.” Indeed. See you the next go-around. Until then, fore.