Bone, Cal & I went on our annual Golf Outing tonight...
Napled hillocks, shaved close as fairways should, twine themselves around a horizon fading from view as the sun declines. In the middle distance mature trees dot the mercurial fairway, this elusive middle ground. I drive and putt and chip and manage to alternately find and lose this treasured real estate.
On the green I look back over the great distance spanned; the hillocks assemble themselves like graduates to “Pomp & Circumstance” and I’m non-plussed that “Par” claims I should’ve been here sooner; I listen to the bullfrogs and crickets and birds, all those natural things who have no white-ball’d compulsions and notice no distinction between green and fairway. Come to think of it, most of my drives made little distinction also.
Yet the compulsion contines, another flag is reached and conquered and another set of white tees bleat their challenge. Coming from a line of golfers, I feel the lack, as if the DNA got mishandled at conception.
I shrugged it off well enough and we got to relax and catch up at Gatsby’s afterwards. The sign outside triggered memories like an old song. Inside the memories flood; that tiny dance floor where Boris Keymon and I fought to a draw, the clusters of girls and guys clenched or hoping to be clenched, a live band accompanying air thick with second-hand smoke and proliferating pheromones.
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