Fore!

I know strange days are upon us when I look around and realize I'm playing golf with my old boss, Dave.  That's what happened yesterday.  He had southern California meetings and took Friday afternoon to drive down to San Diego and shoot the links with me. 

Dave is from Atlanta and is without a doubt the best coach, boss, mentor I ever had.  I never had any doubt that he believed in me . . . sometimes more than I did.  He saw his role as an advocate for me and for the teams he led and would go to executive management to fight for funding or a decision or agreement on a point, so that we could deliver outstanding products and service.  The six or so years I spent reporting directly to him were like Camelot for all of us. 

Sometimes I call Dave America's Oldest Living Boyscout.  That's because he is extremely neat and clean (I bet you could bounce a quarter off his bed right now), and optimistic.  Really, I don't think there's a ugly corner in him anywhere:  he's like a bright shining light in a cynically dark world.

I could go on about Dave for a long time, but this is really about Golf, so let's get back on track, shall we?

I am one of the world's worst golfers.  I played regularly as a kid in Jacksonville and Atlanta.  By 'kid,' I mean 13-17 or so.  Then I got away from the game because it reaked of acceptance and satisfaction with the status quo.   It was the late 60s and, like most of the young people around the world, I was in rebellion. 

Remember Lil Abner at that time?  Al Capp, who was drawing it, created a group of protesters who drifeted in and out of the strip called Students Widely Indignant about Nearly Everything (SWINE).  That pretty much describes me in 1969 . . . I think I was a charter member. 

Eight years later I was a lost and defeated man.  Despite all of our self-righteousness, we hadn't really changed anything and I was working away at a job that didn't pay enough to cover my expenses.  In desperation, I turned around and walked right into my father's house, my tail hung low, asking for help and promising the end of my angry young man phase.    My disillusion with the counter-culture was complete.

He did help me.  In fact, I went to work for him and then into business with him.  I got a haircut and started listening to motivational tapes:  Wayne Dyer, Tom Hopkins, Dennis Waitley.  And I took up golf again.

This time I was playing regularly with my parents at a really wonderful little club they belonged to, Snapfinger Woods.  Membership was cheap and we all loved the course . . . and that's where we'd be two to three times a week. 

Now, you'd think playing that regularly, especially playing the same course regularly,  pretty soon I'd be a scratch golfer.  It never happened.  I reached a place where I could on occasion break 100, but realized that if I was going to improve beyond that,I I'd have to devote considerably more time to practice.  I was busy with the company and too afraid of looking stupid in a lesson to make that kind of committment . . . so,  I quit golf again.

That was around 1984.  Oh I occasionally got sucked into a game with my work cronies:  the obligatory golf tournament that accompanies most corporate events.  But I was so bad it became clear that I was disturbing the other players and I did that very rarely.  I remember trying to mask my rotten skills with humor, once declaring that I would play every ball wherever it lay, then stepping into six inches of murky watter to splah-swing my approach to the green  I ended up wet amd covered with mud and tromped around like that for the rest of the day.  I believe that was the last time I played in conjunction with my work . . . period.

So, yesterday was a big deal for me.  I was going out to humiliate myself once again before my favorite boss.  But I didn't care.  I wanted to see Dave and that's what guys use golf for:  as a means of getting together with other guys they like.  Guys have to DO something when they get together . . . they can't just hang out and chat. 

The course I chose for us was Del Mar National.  I say I chose it . . . it was the only place I called that had availability.  What with the California Pineapple Express drenching us for a week, this sunny Friday proved to be a call to irons and woods for the thousands of area golfers.

Del Mar National is wonderfully designed course, probably the most interesting course I've ever played.  It was done by Tom Fazio, who has a reputation for challenging golfers with optical illusions and tight fairways.  So that 147 year hole looks to be much longer:  250 or 300 yards.  So, that little canyon you have to drive across turns out to be 175 yards and you've already put 2 balls into it.  Greens that have obvious breaks . . . turn out not to break at all. 

I also thought it was expensive:  $155 per person for 18 holes with cart.  Back when I used to play, greens fees were often under 2 digits, hardly 3!

I kept picturing this course as a big green monster with his mouth open, chewing up golfers like potato chips. 

I remember seing a series of prints of the most difficult golf holes.  It was a fantasy thing with these impossible links.  That's what Del Mar National is like. 

It's a very beautiful course . . .and it's very well taken care of . . .but it will frustrate the hell out of you unless you can hit in an accurate and straight line.  It will infuriate you when the fast greens don't break anywhere -- even though they look like they do. 

We played with a couple of guys who walked on as singles.  One was a local who had lovely clubs, a beautiful swing, and a consistent slice.  He looked much better than me through the round but probably lost as many balls.  Another was the nicest guy from San Francisco.  He was an excellent golfer.  I think I only saw him flub one shot all day.  And he was very good natured, joking and making light when the other guy and I went tromping off into the jungle insearch of yet another lost ball. 

Dave was Dave:  an excellent golfer who was out there just for fun and fellowship.  We talked a little business, but mostly we talked golf:  what strategy we'd employ and which club we'd use. 

I lost 12 balls, I think.  I gave myself a 2 ball limit per hole.  Once I lost the second ball on any one hole, I stopped playing that hole.  I had a few wonderful shots from the fairway -- towering lobs that landed on the green, pin-high and just stopped -- and I sunk a couple of amazing putts.  But mostly I was all over the place.  I shot 130 or something silly like that.  But who cares? 

Bottom line:  I had a wonderful time.  Over Margaritas afterwards, Dave told me that my biggest problem was equipment.  I was playing with old thrift store clubs in tennis shoes.  He told me to go out and buy a set of 'Game Improvement" clubs that are forgiving, have large sweet spots, and are engineered to today's standards.  During the round he took one of my irons and said,'Wow, you'd have to be a really good golfer to hit these . . . '

I had a good enough time that I'm going to go out and get those clubs and a pair of shoes.  I'm going back to the driving range and the putting green.  And I'm going to start playing golf with my work cronies.  Anyone up for a round?

*Golf Hole pictures are of Del Mar National Golf Course.