teenage soap operas on the 18th hole
I signed up for the company golf tournament more out of a whim and desire to get out in summer weather than out of any actual love for the game -- not to mention the idea of playing golf in the middle of a workday felt like some grownup version of hooky.
Most of the other players in the tournament were novices, folks who started a year or so ago and still had yet to master the myriad frustrating nuances of the game, and it didn't take long for them to notice that I wasn't one of them. There was the familiarity with which I handled my clubs, and the fact that I sounded like I knew what I was talking about with subjects like pin placement and the speed of greens. Though what sealed it was the observation of the Sales VP as he watched me practice.
"Gosh, Cris, that's an awful nice swing you've got. Just like you see on TV."
and instantly, I was reminded of a comment from a game way back when. I was playing a round with my dad and two Catholic priests. I hit a nice drive off the tee, and as I watched the ball sail across a clear sky, I heard a priest say, "oh, your son has a beautiful swing. So limber. So ... supple."
While I knew better than to re-tell that particular story, I was a little surprised by my first drive, which was an almost exact mirror of that one the priest admired. I watched my ball follow a delicate arc that, if turned into a mathematical equation, would have a calculus with an elegance of its own, and Ken, one of the consulting managers, came up to me and said, "Perfect placement, Cris, I gotta say I'm glad to have you on my team."
"Thanks," I replied, "almost looks like I actually knew what I was doing."
We laughed as we got back into our carts, mine a little more bitter than his. As we drove up to my ball, one of the new marketing flacks turned to me and asked, "so have you been playing for a while?"
"You could say that," I replied, " My dad started my brother and I on the game when I was ... seven, maybe? I've been playing off and on since then. More off than on. Only play about once a year now."
"Still ... that's great. I wish I started playing earlier. You're so lucky."
"Yeah. Lucky."
When my dad first tried to get my brother and I to play golf, it was with the natural inclination for any father to share his passions with his children, and by doing so hope that they'll adopt it themselves. My brother and I took to the game fairly well, and when we were young, loved watching the balls arc through the air, laughed through the bumpy rides in golf carts and trash-talked each other while we tried to master the zen riddle of putting.
Our love waned as we got older and as my father's expectations grew. He didn't want us to just have fun, he wanted us to be good. He tried his best to give us lessons and advice, nagged us about stance, grip, swing and strategy, and was frustrated when none of his words seemed to take hold. He saved special vigor for my failures because, in his eyes, I had a natural talent for the game and I was squandering it. He never quite realized that everyone swings a golf club differently, and that what worked for him wouldn't necessarily work for his kids.
At first, we agreed with him and thought that we were just bad students, felt guilt and shame over our incompetence and inability to learn. We beat ourselves up over it, and after a while, it was no longer a game, but a desperate quest to win his approval and be His Sons.
Then as we grew older and noticed his lessons shifting with every new issue of Golf Magazine, and saw the contradictions in wisdom, we stopped blaming ourselves and started blaming him. He was a bad teacher, a moron and just loved to hear himself talk. Then, the quest for approval turned into a quest to prove him wrong. We'd be great golfers on our own terms, despite his ill-thought advice.
My father and I had our reckoning on a grey afternoon on a course in Vancouver, with us yelling at each other about our shared disappointment. A decade of loaded baggage flew violently between us and a diversity of cliches about dysfunctional families were exchanged with embarassing vigor.
I did all of this for you!
You never cared about what I wanted!
I only wanted the best!
You only wanted me to be someone else!
I hate you!
Teenage angst at its finest.
Oh, and the fact that all of this came down while I was in the middle of stressing on college applications? Mere coincidence. Really. ;-)
I didn't really give up the game after that day, but I found more excuses to avoid playing. Now, I only play when I'm visiting my family, and usually my father will ride in a separate cart, while I ride with my brother. My brother and I will argue about console versus PC games, and my dad will try his best to not watch while I miss a putt. I still feel his disapproval and disappointment, but I'm glad that he doesn't say anything anymore.
And I'm sure that he'd feel a certain amount of pride to think that his son was holding his own at a company golf game, but frankly, I couldn't give a fuck.
Most of the other players in the tournament were novices, folks who started a year or so ago and still had yet to master the myriad frustrating nuances of the game, and it didn't take long for them to notice that I wasn't one of them. There was the familiarity with which I handled my clubs, and the fact that I sounded like I knew what I was talking about with subjects like pin placement and the speed of greens. Though what sealed it was the observation of the Sales VP as he watched me practice.
"Gosh, Cris, that's an awful nice swing you've got. Just like you see on TV."
and instantly, I was reminded of a comment from a game way back when. I was playing a round with my dad and two Catholic priests. I hit a nice drive off the tee, and as I watched the ball sail across a clear sky, I heard a priest say, "oh, your son has a beautiful swing. So limber. So ... supple."
While I knew better than to re-tell that particular story, I was a little surprised by my first drive, which was an almost exact mirror of that one the priest admired. I watched my ball follow a delicate arc that, if turned into a mathematical equation, would have a calculus with an elegance of its own, and Ken, one of the consulting managers, came up to me and said, "Perfect placement, Cris, I gotta say I'm glad to have you on my team."
"Thanks," I replied, "almost looks like I actually knew what I was doing."
We laughed as we got back into our carts, mine a little more bitter than his. As we drove up to my ball, one of the new marketing flacks turned to me and asked, "so have you been playing for a while?"
"You could say that," I replied, " My dad started my brother and I on the game when I was ... seven, maybe? I've been playing off and on since then. More off than on. Only play about once a year now."
"Still ... that's great. I wish I started playing earlier. You're so lucky."
"Yeah. Lucky."
When my dad first tried to get my brother and I to play golf, it was with the natural inclination for any father to share his passions with his children, and by doing so hope that they'll adopt it themselves. My brother and I took to the game fairly well, and when we were young, loved watching the balls arc through the air, laughed through the bumpy rides in golf carts and trash-talked each other while we tried to master the zen riddle of putting.
Our love waned as we got older and as my father's expectations grew. He didn't want us to just have fun, he wanted us to be good. He tried his best to give us lessons and advice, nagged us about stance, grip, swing and strategy, and was frustrated when none of his words seemed to take hold. He saved special vigor for my failures because, in his eyes, I had a natural talent for the game and I was squandering it. He never quite realized that everyone swings a golf club differently, and that what worked for him wouldn't necessarily work for his kids.
At first, we agreed with him and thought that we were just bad students, felt guilt and shame over our incompetence and inability to learn. We beat ourselves up over it, and after a while, it was no longer a game, but a desperate quest to win his approval and be His Sons.
Then as we grew older and noticed his lessons shifting with every new issue of Golf Magazine, and saw the contradictions in wisdom, we stopped blaming ourselves and started blaming him. He was a bad teacher, a moron and just loved to hear himself talk. Then, the quest for approval turned into a quest to prove him wrong. We'd be great golfers on our own terms, despite his ill-thought advice.
My father and I had our reckoning on a grey afternoon on a course in Vancouver, with us yelling at each other about our shared disappointment. A decade of loaded baggage flew violently between us and a diversity of cliches about dysfunctional families were exchanged with embarassing vigor.
I did all of this for you!
You never cared about what I wanted!
I only wanted the best!
You only wanted me to be someone else!
I hate you!
Teenage angst at its finest.
Oh, and the fact that all of this came down while I was in the middle of stressing on college applications? Mere coincidence. Really. ;-)
I didn't really give up the game after that day, but I found more excuses to avoid playing. Now, I only play when I'm visiting my family, and usually my father will ride in a separate cart, while I ride with my brother. My brother and I will argue about console versus PC games, and my dad will try his best to not watch while I miss a putt. I still feel his disapproval and disappointment, but I'm glad that he doesn't say anything anymore.
And I'm sure that he'd feel a certain amount of pride to think that his son was holding his own at a company golf game, but frankly, I couldn't give a fuck.