I am not a great golfer. But I enjoy playing the game and I usually make just enough good drives, chips, and putts to encourage me into thinking I will get better.
My clubs are a collection of garage sale mismatched irons and woods and the weathered and faded bag is held onto the cart by a couple of bungee cords.
I’m not convinced that I would play any better with matched and fitted clubs.
But I look good. I have a pair of white golf shoes, a selection of Arnold Palmer and Ben Hogan golf shirts and some cool, casual slacks that complement the shirts.
I can choose from any number of caps or straw hats and my black golf gloves complete the outfit. Anyone seeing me walk through the clubhouse, nods with respect.
This spring, my golfing buddy Gene and I have been getting out at least once a week. We golf well together as neither of us is overly competitive. Gene is neither impressed nor intimidated by my appearance as he has seen me golfing, up close and personal.
We take our time on the course and compliment each other on our good shots and encourage each other on the bad ones and some days there is a lot more encouragement than there is praise.
But we get a few chances to sit in the shade and talk, sometimes sharing our collection of bad jokes, sometimes telling golf stories or just chit chat. We get to feel the warmth of the sun on the backs of our necks and we are out in the fresh air instead of sitting on the couch.
But the day is always good because we don’t keep score. Sure, we know which holes we parred and which ones we double bogeyed but, at least for me, keeping score is not important anymore.
I’m not just talking about the golf course, I don’t approach the day as if I have to win or lose every situation I’m involved in. Like my golf game, if I can go through the day with a good result here and there and the people around me are laughing and enjoying the day with me, then who cares if I got my way all day?
My last game I hit a ball into the long grass. In a past life I would have cursed and waded in using my 9 iron like a scythe, trampling the grass and eventually just played another ball. This time I stopped at the edge, gently walked in, found another ball then saw mine. I came out ahead. I was rewarded by the golf gods as on the next hole I hit the green about two feet from the pin.
I no longer get stressed if someone cuts me off when I’m driving or if my Hortons lineup is moving too slow, or somebody doesn’t agree with something I’ve said or written.
Who has time for all that worry?
When I get into bed at night I give thanks for another great day and if — as with golf balls — I still have as many friends as I started the day with or, better yet, if I’ve found another one, then my game and my day have been a success.
We don’t know how many holes we have on this course of life, so why keep score? Just have a good time.
At least that’s what McGregor says.
