What the hell has happened here? Last time I set foot on a golf course was on my birthday, NEARLY ONE FULL MONTH AGO.
You might be thinking, Are you alright man? Everything OK? Yeah, I'm quite normal and fine. Outside of golf, life is good. The weather's been unseasonably nice--so what gives?
Actually I just answered my own question. Let's look at my last two attempts to play golf-course golf. The first was way back on September 15, at Silver Lake. I honestly don't remember much about it, but the scorecard tells a sad enough story: a 92 for 18 holes. The part of the scorecard page where you make notes about the weather, conditions, duration, etc., has only this to offer: 'FUCKALL'. Enough said I guess.
Four days later, Ms. L and I attempted to play a round on a nicer course in deep Long Island; we drove off the course after fifteen holes and four-and-a-half hours of the same old bullshit (SOB).
Those two experiences must have squashed my spirit pretty flat. Because in the time since then, there's been practically no desire to visit a golf course. Sure, the odd twinge here or there, but it's always quickly snuffed out by a wave of disgust washing over me at the thought of getting hemmed in on a busy course. Of the usual boring-ass getting-to-know-you chit-chat with schlubby middle-aged guys. These are the better-case scenarios of summertime NYC golf by the way.
It's easily the longest self-imposed, non-weather-related hiatus in the whole decade since I started playing. I feel okay, I think. But on paper it doesn't look so good; someone browsing my stats page could easily assume that something's gone seriously wrong.
The flame of golf-passion has not been snuffed out though. Somewhere, in a narrow driving range stall on the west side of Manhattan perhaps, a tiny ember still burns bright. I am taking more swings and hitting more balls than ever. In the middle of doing some major swing reconstruction; the reason it's not a subject of much discussion is that there is not much to say besides I'm trying to get the club on the proper goddamn plane once and for all.
If the endeavor does eventually bear fruit then I'm sure there will be lots to pontificate and soapbox-preach about, but until then no one wants to write nor read about some jerkoff's deep thoughts on the balls he wacked at the range that day.
Finally it's getting cold though. And thank God. Because even though I don't feel it right now, by not playing golf for so many weeks surely I've been suppressing some kind of awful base impulse. Can't be healthy. Just never know what's going to happen when the pot finally boils over.
I'm looking forward to it. I'm going to hit winter golf with an irrational, uncontrollable vengeance probably. This might be the year in which I am forced to redefine the very limits of winter golf. Of what it means to be a golfer.